


Summon a Demon, Pocket a Friend

by aintnoonefancy, Control_Room



Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Genre: Ableism, Apologies, Attempted Sexual Assault, Body Horror, Body Shaming, Broken Bones, Crushes, Degrading Language, Drinking & Talking, Drinking Games, Drunken Flirting, Drunken Shenanigans, Embarrassment, Emotional Abuse, Feeling Bad, Flashbacks, Flirting, Friendship, Gaslighting, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Hatred, Healing, Implied Death, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, Internalized Victim Blaming, Magic, Major character death - Freeform, Make Outs, Making up and making out, Manipulative Behavior, Memes, Mention of Mass Extinction, Mild Gore, Multiverse, Mutilation, Nightmares, Non-Consensual Kissing, Off-screen death, PTSD, Past physical abuse, Physical Abuse, Pining, Polyamory and hookups, Reconciliation, Redemption, References to Depression, Shame, Softness, Teasing, Therapy, Trying to get better, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Victim Blaming, Vomiting, WHEN WILL YOU LEARN THAT YOUR ACTIONS HAVE CONSEQUENCES OLD MAN, Walking In On Someone, Yearning, alcohol mention, attempted self sacrifice, discovering oneself, eating problems, getting better, has spoilers for tbp, johan ramirez drew deserves better, learning, mental trauma, mention of child death, mention of past alcoholism, mention of past drug use, moral questioning, murder mention, oh now ok, past toxic relationship, the big picture referenced, touch starvation, weight mention
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:34:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 80,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23939230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aintnoonefancy/pseuds/aintnoonefancy, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Control_Room/pseuds/Control_Room
Summary: A summoning goes awry, but Joey decides to roll with it.He doesn't regret it at all.
Relationships: Joey Drew & Joey Drew, Joey Drew/Bertrum Piedmont, Joey Drew/Bertrum Piedmont/Henry Stein, Joey Drew/Henry Stein
Comments: 61
Kudos: 4





	1. Joey, meet Joey

**Author's Note:**

> major big picture spoilers, so if youre planning on reading that or arent caught up, i dont suggest reading this yet

Joey scowled as he scoured through the tomes. It was a confusing dialect with an even more confusing lexograph, so reading it was rather difficult, especially for a man who was, well, not the greatest with magic. Not to mention that _they_ seemed capable of sounds that in no way a human could make, and their eyes notice details that cannot be seen by the naked eye, and thus it is reflected here, and he is but a man, a simple one at that, and a man was not made to hold the promise of infinity in his fingertips, within his flesh. He made due, and the sounds scraped up his throat as they clawed as if from another chest, and he made it work. Most of the time. This was probably not one of those times. 

The glowing green gate was _not_ supposed to be there, but there it was. He skimmed through the book, wondering what he had said wrong, but then, even had something gone wrong, with Henry breathing down his neck about deadlines, he did not have all the time in the world here. His neck ached on cue, and his back, and his ribs, and his wrists, reminding him that Henry only had so much patience and leniency to offer, and it was already running _quite_ thin. 

He thus decided, ‘If there’s already a door open, might as well use it’ and called upon the words to bring whatever was on the other side to his own (not thinking of the consequences in the slightest). He needed help, and he needed it badly. After all, what could be the harm in yet another open invitation to the things outside this world?

“Ribnk tcha auxzenoh froue,” he intoned, deep in his throat and reverberating within his lungs, the words tingling on his tongue, the rush of power driving through him and escaping through his lips. The magic tasted vaguely familiar, surely a sign that the unusual green gate was, in fact, not anomalous enough to be of concern. Therefore, the extraordinarily tall man that crashed in through the gate, swearing and disheveled, was rather a big surprise for him.

The newcomer stood to his full height-- no, not yet, still straightening out from his tumble from the gate -- and taller, still taller. Quite tall. Taller than Henry by a clear foot, maybe a foot and a half. And thin. Painfully so, like someone had stretched him until his bones and joints had splintered apart to make room for more growth, like a salt water taffy. Dark skin, vibrant hair, an alien deep ink blue. Piercing, agitated eyes that spoke of his otherworldly nature. 

“Well,” Joey said after a short pause, and then tried to make a joke of it, to show he was not surprised, even though nearly all his body language betrayed him. “That was hardly graceful.” 

Most of them barely even formed physically, not enough to fall over themselves like that. So, this human-ish man, though Joey was certain he _was not_ human, was already… very off.

Joey raised his chin slightly and offered a smile, a wide and tall facade that hid any number of slimy, horrible emotions like concern, fear and the creeping suspicion that something had gone quite wrong. A physical being had weight and force behind it, and an unknown motive. 

“Are you able to read the godforsaken language you s-sporadically picked up or w-were you winging it?” the newcomer asked acidically, clearly not happy to have been disturbed. “Because the way you’re c-clutchin’ that book’s got me thinking you have no idea what you said.”

_No_ , he didn’t quite say, but his fingers twitched over the binding of said book. “The intent had been to summon assistance,” he answered cagily. “I take it that is off the mark.”

“Well, intent doesn’t get you far i-in a language that lies all the time,” the man pursed his lips. “What did you mean to say?”

In a lying language-- Joey filed that away as _very interesting_ and also something to watch out for, especially considering previous dealings. “If you must know, I said, ribnk tcha auxzenoh froue.”

“Oh, you… ah,” the other man shifts, and a pink cane materializes into his hand. “You must have been aiming for ‘auxzeloh’, not auxzenoh’. The first means ‘help’, the other, well. A botched way to say alien, or otherworlder. So, c-congratulations, you got exactly what you asked for.”

“How certain are you of that?” he asked. “So, without the transliteration of the ‘l’ and ‘n’-- different roots, is that it?--So, if I were to _try again…?”_

“Please, don’t,” he sighed.

“Ribnk tcha auxkzeeloh frou.”

“You called your own mother a bitch.”

His smile flickered at that, softening into something nearly genuine, and he hid a snort. “Now,” he said, brushing past that slip of the tongue. “Which part of that phrase, exactly, was the profanity, or was it the general inflection? Am I missing a tonal component due to an untrained ear or an untrained voice?” 

Joey practically was jumping with excitement. It took a great deal of his self-restraint to fight his urge to grab a notepad and begin furiously taking notes. This was thrilling! Admittedly, he was still wary of anyone or anything that came from the outside, but a frisson of excitement tingled down his spine.

“Well, you mis-said froue and said frou,” the very tall being ticked off, “which means mother. Then the butchered ‘auxkzeeloh’. Spending too much time on ‘zee’ makes it go from help to, er, you know. _Other_ help. Purchased. So you said, ‘the mother of me is a prostitute’. Which is interchangeable with other derogatory terms.”

“Spectacular,” he breathed. His eyes widened at the realization, and also in delight at the new information. “How is it that you know this language so well? Is it native to you, or are you simply more well-versed?”

“Versed,” the other muttered. “Do you really think a human would natively speak that accursed tongue? Some do, but not me.”

“I wasn’t certain until now that you _were_ fully human,” Joey admitted. “Humanoid, certainly. How did you come to learn it, then? Did you have any formal or informal education in the matter, or rather a more effective self-teaching, as opposed to my slapdash mimickry?” 

“Er,” the man fumbled, furrowing his brow and fidgeted with something in his pocket. “Picked up on it, crash course wise. Language comes natural to me.”

“You are a marvel.” Abruptly, he hesitated. Just how many questions had he already asked? But, yet, while the other man looked tired of his questioning, he did not seem to have that same furious sort of indignation and irritation he was so skilled at inciting in Henry. Looking a bit closer, the man just… seemed tired. Rather than tired of his questions. Exhaustion, as otherworldly as the man himself, seemed to drag him down and through the floor, as if eager to swallow him whole.

“That, I am absolutely not,” he remarked, the tiredness spiking. “Marvelously screwed up, yes.”

“Rather high esteem of yourself, haven’t you?” he returned. “So do you get summoned places often, or am I special?” He gestured to the two chairs. He wanted to make sure he could _continue_ this, pry more information from this enigma, this veritable font of knowledge. “Come and sit, make yourself comfortable and let me make up for my appalling manners earlier…” He added, as if in afterthought, though his eagerness perhaps showed in his posture as he moved to set down the book on the table. Well within eyesight and protecting proximity, but out of his hands for now. “Or do you have somewhere pressing to be?”

A muscle twitched in the otherworlder’s jaw. “No.”

Even though he admitted to not having anywhere he needed to be, he made no move to sit, looking at the chairs with an odd longing loathing. 

Odd. Peculiar, even. Surely it was not directly to do with the offer coming from him. Perhaps due to the nature of the other man not being of this world? Joey stopped his musings in their track with a subtle shake of his head. “No sitting then? How about food? You look like you could use a meal, and I've been a bad host, especially as you aren't one of _them_ , and I assume you eat? I wouldn't poison you if I gave you some scones?"

“I, um,” he seemed to be weighing something in his mind. “I… I have eaten before.”

Well, that was a prevarication if ever he heard one. Joey gave an offhanded wave, the bagginess of his shirt sleeve riding down with the motion and exposing the bruising there. “My stomach is in knots myself, especially as I’ve realized we have, _I_ have, skipped right past the pleasantries and interrogated you.” He smiled at him, winsome. “Joey Drew. I will try not to slaughter your name so graphically as I did that phrase.” 

“Joey Drew.” is the coy reply. There was the faintest of a smile on his face.

“Are you parroting me, or do you mean to say we share a name?”

“Perhaps this may convince you that we are the same person,” ‘Joey’ rose a brow. “You and I both have studios, animation studios, with a worker named Henry at the forefront. The main character is Bendy, and is featured along with Boris the Wolf and Alice Angel. Am I wrong? There are some worlds with minor differences, but I’m assuming that this one is similar to most.”

“Similar to most,” he noted, dumbly. His mind raced with the implications behind those words. “Just how many ‘Joey Drew’s are there? A theoretical infinite, if you mean what I believe you implied? How many have you met? What would be the plural of Joey Drew?”

“Yes, you’re grasping this much better than others,” the other Joey remarked. He pulled out a strange clunky device from thin air, and typed into a typewriter messily attached. An image appeared on the wall behind him, reading ‘You, the other you, and the you from the parallel dimension’. “This should explain it.”

About ten minutes later, the more advanced Joey explained the last quantum theory, and returned his device to who knows where.

This was beyond even his wildest dreams. This was a staggering amount of information at once, and yet, nowhere near enough for his curiosity. He wanted to know _everything_ , learn all that he could, and yet-- Joey’s eyes gleamed. 

“I cannot even begin to thank you for explaining that,” Joey began, because he was not so rude as to just continue to barrage the man with questions. (Though he fully intended to.) “This calls into question everything men have believed about the human consciousness, individuality and the certainty of any sort of afterlife imagined. This is a revelation beyond all others.” It also helped begin to explain _them_ , and that question that had been needling him forever since he first cracked open the world to let _them_ in. “How do you call yourself to differentiate yourself from your dimensional alternates?”

“Johan.”

“Thank you, Johan.” And if he was thanking the man for more than just answering his questions (Johan had not even _once_ moved as though he would slap Joey, even though the man had to be beyond exhausted at this point and tempers ran short in those short on sleep), that was his own business. “Truly. That said, as much as I would love to continue to discuss this, neither of us have the luxury of that spare time, do we?”

Johan did not answer that.

Ah. Of course something so pleasant would have to end. But he had already whiled away far too long, indulged and imposed upon Johan more than enough, and he had a job to return to, lest Hen-- the consequences struck. 

“I suppose that this _would_ be a once in a lifetime event,” he acknowledged. “Unless, perhaps, I could tempt you to visit again? Given enough time I’m certain I would eventually run out of questions and be a far more agreeable host.”

“Well,” he shifted. “I don’t know. I…” he hesitated, then continued, “I could give you my card. If there’s anything I can help you with now, of course, do tell.”

Help. He needed help. The word sat on his tongue like a lead weight, stuck behind his teeth and tethered there by pride, dignity, and no small measure of fear. 

Johan’s brow furrowed, not in question or pity, but in sadness. 

“Anything at all,” he softly said. His eyes were gentle, and his pose denoted openness. 

“Help,” he whispered. Just like that, it fell free of his lips, his shame tumbling shapelessly from his vocalizations. Then, frozen for a moment as he realized what he had admitted, what he had hidden so carefully with every wide smile and tightly cinched necktie and careful posture. “I mean, I have an excess of work to complete and a dearth of time to complete it. I need someone to help edit, help finalize the next episode. Then I’d have time to do everything else.”

Johan smiled. 

“You’ve got y-yourself one animation assistant.” 

The workload was so large it may have taken Joey a week to do alone. But with Johan working like a machine, rapidly, efficiently, smoothly, and completing each task in a fraction of the time, it was hardly more than three hours. And Johan was an excellent partner, getting him coffee and more paper and ink. He let him nap, and when he was awake, gestured to the man’s desk, showing the completed work.

“You _are_ a marvel,” Joey insisted on his earlier assertion, staring at the finished project before them and the mugs scattered across the desk. Something thick clogged his throat, heavy and cloying. He swallowed around it to no avail as he met Johan’s half open gaze steadily; or at least as steady as the slight blurring to his vision allowed. “Thank you.” 

Once the words were out, it was like his body was no longer his own. He flung himself at Johan, wrapping his arms around the other man-- and choked on a whine as his broken ribs protested and the cracked ones throbbed. Wheezing, he pulled back from the hug slightly, unable to bring himself to break the contact just yet. Pain aside, Johan was so unbelievably, and pleasantly, warm, like sunshine.

The tall man’s hands delicately pressed to his back. 

The pain in his ribs spiked, then faded quickly. He could feel them realign themselves beneath his skin. 

He sucked in an experimentally deeper breath, bracing for pain and feeling only the natural expansion of his ribcage and diaphragm. 

The air felt cleaner.

“You, that was you, wasn’t it?” Joey asked, but of course it was Johan. Still, he could hardly bring himself to believe or trust. His eyes watered even as he fought the tears. “ _Thank you_ , Johan.”

“Please stay safe,” Johan asked quietly. He handed him a shimmering card. “My card. You can call me on that.”

Joey perhaps gripped a bit too tightly to it with one hand as he adjusted his necktie and collar with the other. 

“Of course,” he said gruffly. “Provided you keep safe as well.”

“Sure,” Johan snorted. Then an oblong door opened, bright green. He stepped through, waving a hand over his shoulder. “Be well.”

Alone again, Joey turned the card over in his hands, examining it. “What a strange man,” he murmured. A strange experience all around, but an overwhelmingly enjoyable one.

***

Joey sat in his office. He decided to nickname himself Pyrite, in the case of other Joeys showing up, and a few had, now and then. Still, he did not forget the first one he met. He often called him, asking questions and the such, and eventually recognized that he was the ‘ghost’ in his radio, the low tones that often mixed with the other vocalists, often singing along, sometimes playing an instrument of his own in tune. 

Sometimes he tuned in to the radio, not for the typical broadcast anyone else would have imagined. Sometimes, beneath and between the banal and vapid back and forth banter of talk show hosts, or the raucous faux western radio dramas, he heard Johan, and recently, what he heard had been worrisome. He had his own matters to attend to, of course, so he had not had the time, per se, to call Johan as often as he would have liked, but surely the younger, odd man was holding his own. Surely.

Sometimes he would tune into white noise, just to hear Johan.

It would seem like no one was there, on nights when it would just be barely audible breathing, mixed with wheezes.

Johan’s voice grew increasingly hoarse. 

He coughed often, the hacking rasp breaking into his singing. He broke into sobbing as well, the tears bursting into his low tones and cracking his voice. 

Oftentimes, it was both.

He was worried. How could he not worry, when someone who had shown him kindness and compassion, offered a wealth of information without demand for exorbitant repayment, made such noises?

But he had his own problems.

Such as the fact he was ink. 

More exactly, his body mostly was ink, partially Bendy (or at least that ersatz _thing_ they had dropped at his feet), and partially himself, which was fully and totally a much larger and pressing problem than his concerns about Johan. 

Johan could, and would, be just fine without him to stumble in trying to play hero.

Then there was that last transmission.

Laughter. 

Wrong, unhappy laughter. It went on for hours, and then folded in on itself, curled up like a dying animal, and tapered into weak sobs.

Pyrite did not check on him. Not until he could not take the harrowing pressure in his mind, his conscience demanding he check on the young man, at least call.

His hand most certainly did not tremble as he called. If it did, it was a trick of the light, a consequence of ink replacing flesh and bone. 

“H-Hello,” was the tired, no, exhausted, no, absolutely bushwhacked response on the fourth ring. “You’ve reached Johan douchebag Ramirez Drew nothing. You’ve probably called this dimensional line in error, and if you haven’t, well, p-please don’t gloat. I’m not in the mood to hear how much I messed up at the moment. Maybe never. Probably n-never, yeah. If, if you did not call by accident, or call to hold this over my head, then how may I assist you?”

Oh no. No, no, that was wrong. On all levels that was deeply _wrong._ A man who patiently sat through his endless questions? A man who performed a full week’s worth of work in a scant few hours? A man who _healed_ his ribs just because he had heard Pyrite cry out in pain due to his own stupidity of launching onto him? That man was not a douchebag, not ‘nothing’, and Pyrite would rather break his spine again than call the man that. What in heavens had happened to the man, because this, this was wholly wrong. After another second, he realized he still had not spoken a word. 

“Damn it, Johan,” he winced when he realized it was likely not beneficial to curse at someone who obviously believed anyone who would bother calling him had ill-intent. “Johan, it’s me, Pyrite. If nothing else, please, I’m far too lazy and egotistical to call you just to remind you of your own sins. At worst I’d subject you to my voice and pester you for more questions. What _happened_ to you?”

“To me?” there was an edge of hysteria in those calm words. “To me? Well, for starters, I’m the only living being left in my dimension, haha. Ha! Oh, nothing happened to me, aside from this damned sickness. Nothing at all. Ha, it’s… it’s kinda funny, you know? Just. Y-you know. Being completely a-”

The audio broke up.

“-n a dying world.”

He should have called sooner. He should have been less self-absorbed and just tried to help someone, be there for someone, and here Johan was, breaking, or broken? He could hardly say, but he could speak to his growing horror.

“Johan,” he whispered, then froze. What could he say? He could hardly offer to race to Johan’s aid. He lacked the ability for interdimensional travel, and Johan sounded too weak to do it for him. “You were meant to stay safe. What part of a dying world seems safe?” 

“It wasn’t dead before. Ther-” static. “-urious pathogen,” Johan giggled. “Wiped out everything. N-never was safe. Never was, ain’t now.”

A pathogen. The memory of every single time he had heard Johan’s coughs, deep and wracking, echoed. “Are you uninfected? Is there a cure? There must be!”

“No cure,” Johan laughed. His laughter broke into coughing again. “No organic matter left, n-non natural items passing into darkness. Everything dyin’. Goin’, goin’, gone. There are a c-” Static. “-f plants left.”

“Johan, the connection, why is it so unstable? There has to be something.” No organic matter? Johan _was_ organic. Had that changed? Was it a Joey trait to be damned to an inhuman end? “What if, what if…” Pyrite swallowed his rising nausea, swallowed the acidic taste of fear and ink. If the connection was unstable enough to be static riddled on his end, he doubted Johan’s end, the miserable situation it was, was any better. “How can I reach you? Let me help. You need help!” 

“I’ve lost my, my t-touch,” the man babbled. “Can’t do anything. C-can’t. No one to help. N-nothin’ to help. I can’t do anything.”

“Hang in there.” Which was arguably the stupidest, least helpful thing to say. “Johan, you have to promise me to hold on. It hurts, of course it does, but you’re strong and I am coming. I promise you, I can fix this. Believe in me.” 

That was a lie, but oh, in that moment he believed himself.

“What’s there to fix,” Johan asked, but there was no question, only fatigue. “Everyone and everything is dead.”

“ _You_ aren’t,” he snapped. “And I won’t let you die.”

“I don’t think it will either,” Johan whispered. “I don’t th-”

The line went dead.

“Johan?” Pyrite said after a moment, a chill running through his veins. He held onto the phone for a while longer, hoping beyond hope that he had misheard, to no avail. Then, the time to act had come and gone, and he launched himself into catching up with a new goal. 

He needed a means of crossing dimensions. He already needed to find a way to get Henry to come, a means to drag the man kicking and screaming to pay his debts even if it killed them both. What was this but a very slight detour? 

Though Pyrite had read, and reread, the tome forwards and backwards, he still did not _know_ everything bound within the leather. With Johan’s help and no small amount of traded secrets with _them_ his comprehension had steadily improved, and now with the ink in his veins -- or was it his veins in the ink? -- he could understand even more. There had to be an answer in here. 

Somewhere.

Right?

…

Apparently somewhere involved a bit of an epiphany and a frustrated final attempt to wrangle and wrestle with the laws of reality as he understood them. Which is to say, he screamed at the book, threw it into a puddle, then dove in after it with a startled cry. It was pure luck he retained his own identity and consciousness despite the ink, or perhaps a testament to his stubbornness that his soul refused to pool in the collective. Or obstinate obsession. After decidedly ignoring everything (nearly, there were whispers and promises and images that stole into his mind, tugging at him with nymph laughter like alcohol straight to his mind) and crawling out of the puddle, his form dripping and sloughing off in heavy sheets, Pyrite had the start of an idea. A rabbit hole to fall into, a dark, dangerous avenue to explore. He knew what he needed. The last puzzle piece was creating those components.

Whatever flowed from him when he was struck or sliced, it lacked the proper consistency, color and stench of either ink or blood- though the latter was perhaps more psychosomatic. Whatever the ichor truly was, it held more magic within it, somehow, than Pyrite could hold in the confines of his body. 

There was a trial attempt, to create the runes. Rewriting the odd language, time and time again, for there was no room for error. If he failed, if he made a mistake here, it would be catastrophic. The exact fate that awaited him was irrelevant. Ultimately, he would damn Johan to his protracted death, and his employees to a fate worse than death. And he refused.

The symbols etched themselves in his brain and the desk surface he placed the ancient book upon, the ichor spilled freely, and the tome, encircled by the carvings, lay open to a blank page (if not truly blank, perhaps only so due to his lingering humanity). There was room in this lying language for intent, as well, and that was the final piece. The cold, slipping, sliding darkness within his mockery of a body soiled the pages. He slammed the book shut, muttering the incantation yet oh-so-very conscious of pronunciation thanks to a certain someone’s reminders, and by remembering the state of his body. Caution was key.

It felt warm under his touch when he opened to the first page again. The world shifted two inches to the left and inside-out, a pressure previously unknown burst inside him and sank out through his feet, taking his equilibrium with it. He fell-- 

And rose up someplace else. Someplace unfamiliar. 

There was ink seeping out of, well, everything. It looked strangely toxic, yet also somehow unnatural, and even worse, somehow natural.

He walked forward, cautious. Each footfall carried him closer to the origin of the heavy sense of foreboding that weighed across his shoulders.

The smell of gore penetrated the air, befouling it and twisting what should have been refreshing. 

He still crept along the disturbing reality.

Then, suspended in the end of the walk, was a lanky, far too thin, far too stretched, far too emaciated and wrong man. 

A far too easily recognizable figure, despite what had been done to the man.

His head was kept up, and possibly attached by spokes similar to a wild beast’s collar, preventing him from seeing the damage wrought on his own body. He seemed unable to see Pyrite, and stepping closer, Pyrite saw why, and it tore a gasp from his throat.

One of his eyes was mutilated beyond repair, and the other was soaked through with blood. Shivers ran through the ruined body, wheezing breaths stuttering over wrecked lips and dragging up a strewn throat. Hair no longer blue, it was snowy white at the roots and darkening to the indigo ink by the tips, but the strands were matted with blood, some clinging to his skull by the gore. His chest cavity was rent open in a gruesome facsimile of a budding flower, lungs exposed, crowding with each inhale against shattered ribs. He was held aloft by chains attached to his destroyed arms and fractured legs, chains that seemed to have no end, chains that went up, and up, and up evermore. Pyrite could not scream, the sound of unbridled horror and disgust lodged and twisted, like an air bubble trapped beneath the ink. Johan, the kindest man he had met in living memory, flayed within an inch, no, even less - half a micrometer of his life. As if mocking the severity of his other injuries, a trickle of blood flowed from Johan’s nose and lip, a stark contrast to the brutality painted on his entire body, painted in lesions, spilled blood and ink.

This was a tragedy made flesh, not a man.

Johan’s labored breathing punctuated the silence. The air sucked in and out of a ruined esophagus, filling only half way lungs drenched in gore and confined by shattered bone.

Sssumph.

Khhhh.

Ssssumph.

Khhhh.

“Johan?” He startled himself when he spoke, quiet, horrified, flinching as his voice profaned the rust-flavored air. 

“Py… Pyrite?” the shattered man breathed, his eye struggling to focus. A strained smile slipped onto his lips, not strained from dislike, but strained from pain. “Oh… it’s nice, t-to, to see a good… a good friend…”

His capacity for coherent thought finally took a screeching plunge into nothingness. How in heaven was he meant to respond to that? Not to mention it seemed as though through some unholy miracle that the broken man could even speak, but to call Pyrite that? Johan was, apparently, even worse off than he appeared.

But this was hardly the time or place to be ruminating over Johan’s state, as horrific as it was. Pyrite, fortunately for his nerves, was quite skilled in the art of distraction. He stepped a little closer to the man and allowed his smile to widen. 

“Yes, yes,” he dismissed, feigning nonchalance. “Whatever you feel like calling me. Seeing as you're in no position to talk, you'll have to deal with my voice. It can't be worse than, than that horrid state you're already in.”

“Your voice is… lovely,” Johan sighed, non destroyed eye falling shut in his waxing enervation. “So… v-very nice. A w-wonderful change.”

Oh, good, so Johan was delirious. He wanted to ask how Johan came to be like this, of course, but the matter of releasing him was far more important, and failing that, Pyrite would be damned before he caused the man further pain. Mirthlessly, he wondered if Johan would register it, or if his every nerve was already deadened, overstimulated by pain and cruel hands.

A cough and groan tore that minor hope from him. 

“This is quite the situation you’ve ended up in,” he remarked, as if it were something minor, trivial, and not something that caused his hackles to raise and his gorge to rise.

“Mhm…” His head shifted, and Pyrite fought back a gag as he watched the _exposed_ ligaments and muscles in his neck move. “It was t-targetting me. Waiting for me to be alone. Completely. To get… get… get….”

His brow, matted with blood, furrowed, the dried maroon crinkling. He seemed to be lost, out of focus, unable to continue his words.

“Save your breath,” he interrupted. Johan’s lucidity appeared a limited commodity, not without good reason. “You can explain the motives and whys, and hows, of whatever did this to you _after_ I find a way to get you free.” 

The chains had to come apart somewhere, had to have an end, a weak point to exploit, yet when he stared up, peering into the endless, vast darkness overhead he could see nothing of the sort. No, in fact he could see something. Tendrils of a familiar presence, like a song played until the record needle wore down to a nub, all the more distorted by an alien atmosphere. 

Ink? Something alive, methodical but animalistic, stalking. Inhumane patience. _They_ had the patience of ageless beings if _they_ were so inclined, and yet this seemed less infinite, however, frighteningly more encompassing. Whatever it was, it would wait, as long as need be, whether out of curiosity or sadism. But he dared not linger. 

He could feel an eye burning into his back.

He decidedly did not mention it, not the creeping presence, not the barely visible tendrils at his peripheral vision, certainly not the watching gaze. No need to worry Johan, after all, as the man could hardly flee either of those. 

“Those chains appear rather sturdy, I’ll admit, but I’m not sure if you can, um, if you can see as such, but I might have a bit more strength in these limbs than before. I could, perhaps…” Pyrite’s voice lowered to a thoughtful murmur. “There _has_ to be some structural insufficiency somewhere. Every design has its flaws.”

“Not-t this one,” Johan smiled. There was blood on his teeth. “Unmade by human hands, or any living being. The machine of p-pure perfection.”

“Maybe you haven’t noticed, but I am supremely skilled at destroying things.”

Johan’s eye was tired.

“So am I.”

“Yes, well, perhaps, I for one have yet to learn to stop when the odds are stacked against me. I _will_ find a way.”

“Maybe you haven’t noticed that the odds are impossible against me,” Johan laughed crisply. It was all wrong. “I shouldn’t be _alive_ right now. I may have already died. Is this purgatory? No, c-can’t be, you’re here…. Ah… well… death might be nicer than this.”

“Don’t say that.” The words were automatic, unthinking. The thought of Johan perishing, dying in agony no less, was unconscionable. The thought of Johan in Hell, or even purgatory, was equally, if not moreso, repugnant. Many people deserved damnation. Johan was not one of them. “You are alive, I promise you, and you will be free, and it will be painless, it will be pleasant. Johan, there is more after this torment and you _will see it,_ or so help me God.”

“There’s nothing to save,” Johan’s laugh became increased, shattered and torn and broke into sobbing and moans of pain. “Everything hurts….”

“Even if it's a pointless endeavor, it's my time to waste,” Pyrite insisted, stepping closer, his heart twisting into palpitating knots. He tried coming closer, ignoring the shrieking fear in his mind. “Now, hush, try not to get worked up. Your state is... worrisome.”

“I can’t see you,” Johan whispered. “M-My eyes hurt….”

“Of that, I am certain.” He hesitated briefly, his arm protesting as he reached out. Was there even an inch of Johan’s body that he could touch? The man was a menagerie of broken bone and split flesh and slick blood. A tapestry of cruelty. He never was one to hesitate for long, however, and he crossed the distance between them. Gingerly, he found a less wounded area on Johan’s shoulder and applied as much pressure as he dared, hoping beyond hope that the comfort of a gentle touch would supersede the agony of jostling any of his myriad injuries.

Johan’s shoulders lowered from a terse hold, a quiet sigh of air pushed from his battered lungs.

Ink and the machine had ruined so much, destroyed so many. He hardly held any love for the blasted thing, not for years, and yet this was a magnitude too far. Hatred had lived inside him, standing guard around his heart, but this? This was a war horn. This was havoc incited, and the very sight of those advancing tendrils, the architects of this horror, riled his blood. His grin pulled back from his lips in a feral sneer, though he fought down the expression before pulling back enough to meet Johan’s ruined gaze.

“You will not die here,” he promised, reaching out once more to push back a bit of Johan’s tangled hair, matted to his forehead by blood. He burned with his inability to help further.

Johan’s eye slowly closed, breathing at a crawl.

“Maybe,” he murmured. He looked up, at the tendrils dancing about them, teasingly snaking down the chains to Johan’s wrists. Johan was quiet a moment. “You sh-should go.”

“And _leave_ you here? Of all the-- Johan, even I have my limits of the injustices I will overlook!” But, to his sinking horror, Pyrite realized Johan had a point. The machine and its chains were an unknown. He had a new power at his fingertips, but it was yet unexplored, and an entire studio’s worth of people (victims, really) waiting back in his own dimension. As unsavory and unpalatable as the very thought was, he _had_ to leave Johan behind if he hoped to save anyone. 

Meekly, abashed by the press of the reality of their situations, Pyrite promised, “I will return for you.”

“You won’t,” Johan softly corrected. “The s-sentiment is nice, though.”

More determined, he met Johan’s statement, bleak and hopeless as it was, with silence. With his track record of obstinacy, he was sure he was telling the truth. Much as it pained him to, he backed away from Johan and left him in the clutches of the machine. Between one step and the next, fingers finding the edge of the cover of the book he was surprised to find still in his grasp, he passed through the slightest resistance and was back.

When all hell broke loose in his world, he still thought of Johan, every now and then. 

But between the ink overtaking his mind and the studio, between the fact he had finally managed to gather up the means for his revenge (and found it lacking, hollow, why did hurting someone who had hurt him make him feel so monstrous?), between his own chaos, there was little room for more than passing thoughts, twinges of guilt that reminded him that while he stalked these halls, Johan continued to suffer.

Then the loops broke, shattered, and the ink poured from their bodies like pus from a wound and they were-- not whole, but cleaner. Healing. They all bore the scars and disfigurements imposed on them, the foreign pieces of metal and ink and ozone scented magic clinging to them, but they were more free than ever before. 

It took far too long, too many years, too many loops, too many attempts, but Pyrite finally succeeded and could focus on Johan, on the promise he had made.

Perhaps one positive to there never being a tomorrow, or a risk of permanent death, was that it ensured plenty of time to practice highly risky rituals. Sure, he had lost a few limbs to _their_ greedy, dripping jaws. Repeatedly. But every loop his body was returned to him, in the same intact, if not hale, condition. Through trial and error and at least one spectacularly gorey failure, he had become well acquainted with the quirks of the book he now possessed, that was somewhat inexplicably tied to him. 

His fingers ghosted across the front page, skimming the index that was never the same at second glance, until he found the appropriate symbol that he had come to learn as Johan’s designation. He flipped to the appropriate page and willed himself through soggy reality, like pushing through a thin membrane.

The first thing he noticed was the utter lack of ink and stench of suffering. His stomach clenched, nausea gripping him. He had been too late after all. 

The next thing he noticed was that the room was a bedroom, only empty of signs of torture, not empty of people. Johan, his distinct figure pushed down on the bed, and a shorter, stockier man kissing him senseless-

Oh. 

Of course, being Pyrite, his first instinct had not, in fact, been to leave without disturbing the two. No, he blurted out a rapid-fire apology and then kept going. “My apologies, but, so happy to see that you are doing, ah, that you’re feeling better, Johan, I’ll just be, um, getting going, heading off now.”

Pyrite jerked back out of the room like he had been burnt. Should he leave? That was the height of rudeness, to interrupt such a moment, and then just leave interrupting their evening for nothing. At the same time, he was clearly intruding. 

“Woah, woah, it’s alright,” the short man said, after shaking his head with a bit of laughter. He looked over the newcomer, sliding off the bed (while Johan hid his face in his hands, mortified). “Surely you’ve seen a fella kiss someone before.”

“Oh, that was all?” Pyrite asked, the words slipping by with relief before he could register them. His pale face blushed, and he quickly backpedalled. “I mean, I’m glad I didn’t interrupt anything more… intimate. Do go on, I will see myself out. I simply intended to, ah, check in on Johan, as the last time--” His speech faltered momentarily, nearly imperceptibly, before he rephrased it. “--was some time ago.”

“We’re good,” the blonde replied, and turned to Johan. “Aren’t we, honeybee?”

“M-mhm,” Johan managed to squeak, clearly very embarrassed. “How about y-you two go on ahead and meet? I’ll… I’ll catch my breath and join in a moment.”

“Spectacular,” Pyrite said, shoving down his second-hand embarrassment and the memory into a mental box labeled ‘never think of or mention again’. He gestured between himself and the other man. “Your move, sir. I will, ah, follow your lead in this.” 

Henry led him into a nicely decorated living room. Allowed him to sit on a couch. And waited for him to speak, cocking an eyebrow. 

This was certainly not how he had imagined his visit would go. Clearing his throat, Pyrite carefully melted his posture into one of lanquidity and ease and offered a smirk that pulled too far to one side to be a proper smile. 

“Henry, I assume?” he asked, hoping he was correct to avoid the vast mortification from this whole interaction. “Pyrite, another Joey.” 

He could only assume that with his obvious propinquity with Johan that that statement spoke for itself. 

“Enlighten me, why don’t you? Johan seems to be in good health.” _How recently has that developed_ , he wanted to ask, but did not dare. “As thin as ever, but a good deal livelier.” 

“Put on a bit of weight, actually,” Henry smiled, softening. “We’ve… been working on his health, actually. I’m Henry, by the way. But my friends call me ‘Ray’. Earned that for fixing up an x-ray, among other things. Johan’s doing okay, we’re getting there.”

“I’m glad to hear that, Ray,” Pyrite said, his words softer with his relief. His grin relaxed to a more natural degree. “Johan deserves an easier road for a time. Not that he’s in need of coddling, but a man indurates to a certain point and loses that, certain quality.” Then, he asked, “So, tell me about yourself. Obviously you have some mechanical knowledge. Good with your hands?” 

“I’m a doctor, actually, and mechanics are Johan’s strong suit,” he chuckled. “I tinker with them now and again, but other than that, I’m not really proficient with my hands. Unless it’s for animation or getting a certain someone flustered.”

“What is your medical focus?” he asked, almost immediately. He could only imagine having a biological interest in the ink, wondering what Henry had already studied in his timeline of events, or whether he had studied it at all. As for the double entendre, well, Pyrite supposed that he had opened the door to that one. Curse his pale skin, however, as the slightest blush colored his cheeks.

“General physician,” was the perhaps startling reply. Johan peaked out of the bedroom, nodding at Henry and signing that he would go get tea ready. “I was in medical school when I met Joey, and needed some money, so I asked for a job. And here we are.”

Pyrite thought he had seen a blur of blue and a flash of dark skin in his peripheral vision, but chalked it up to seeing shadows. “Interesting. It’s my understanding a GP has to be knowledgeable in a broad spectrum of studies for diagnostic purposes and preventative care. To have all that information and study, and you were obligated to a job counter to your schooling. It turned out for the best but, I wonder, you are also an animator then?” 

“Yep,” he answered, popping the ‘p’. “Johan used to do the whole thing alone, but now he’s on storyboard duty. Otherwise he’d be working himself into the ground _again_.”

“Hush, Henry,” Johan muttered, coming in with a teapot and three cups. “Now, would you like coffee, tea, hot lemonade, or eggnog?”

Though he had never heard of serving either lemonade or eggnog warm, it would not do to insult one’s hosts, especially not after such an entry. He murmured, “Just tea is fine,” because while Johan was obviously quite blase about his work ethic, Pyrite had seen it firsthand and it was still a sight to behold, and he did not want to bother the man to make another drink.

“You made eggnog?” Henry asked, eyes lighting up. “I want some, please.”

Johan poured the eggnog from the teapot, then steaming lemonade for himself from the same pot. 

Much like a child eying a new toy, Pyrite’s expression went from controlled and bland to barely restrained excitement and insatiable curiosity. “How in Heaven...? Magic? An application of portals?” That seemed to be an extravagant use, all things told, but who was he to judge someone else’s magic usage. “How does it work?”

“Just a little trick my father taught me,” the blue haired man grinned softly, pouring for Pyrite his tea. “A rather fun one and perfect for when there are guests.”

His father taught him? His father was magical? Or, no, was the kettle mundane? 

“My father knew no magic,” Johan read Pyrite’s expression. “He was a doctor.”

Then, what, something internal, chambers? Valves? Well that would be disheartening. Or encouraging, seeing how badly the supernatural could affect things, especially potable or edible substances. In a sense, legerdemain was a form of magic. 

“You can take a look inside the pot if you’d like,” Johan offered it to him. 

He moved with rapidity and only _just_ enough grace and self-control so as not to make an utter prat of himself. And inside there were-- handkerchiefs? A vast amount of them. All vividly colored, enough so to strain the eyes. 

“Now that is--” Pyrite cut himself off with a confused sound. “Please offer a simpleton a simpleton’s explanation?” 

“Physics,” Johan grinned, and said no more.

Pyrite finally obliged and accepted the offered cup of tea, returning the pot to its rightful owner. “I… I see,” he said, somewhat off-footed by the laconic explanation. “Thank you. You look... well, Johan. I didn’t quite get to say as such earlier.”

Johan merely blushed a bit.

Henry, however, latched onto it, and smirked, speaking for his- husband? Boyfriend? Lover?, “Oh, he looks great, don’t you think?”

Smirking now, a downright animalistic lend to the expression, Pyrite agreed, “Yes, Johan is a wonder, and a delight to watch at work.”

“Mm, I can second that,” Henry’s smirk grew and Johan squirmed in his seat. “Too quick though, I could only wish to see it in slow motion.”

“I had only a night to witness Johan’s skill. I can only imagine what you’ve seen and done together.”

Johan’s face was utterly flaming, his embarrassment shining off in waves. 

“Nothing that you might think,” he blurted, making Henry laugh (causing his blush to deepen all the more). He glared at his husband (definitely husband). “I mean it!”

“Now, Johan,” Pyrite said, all too reasonably and even despite the grin he bore, “if you protest our respect for your abilities, I’m afraid there is no other recourse _but_ to remind you of how stunning you truly are.”

Pyrite could literally feel the heat ebbing off of the lanky man. 

Abruptly the relief was too much to bear, his amusement and the sheer degree (metaphorically and literally) of Johan’s embarrassment destroying his self-restraint, and he burst into laughter, a short, barking thing that immediately caused him to cover his mouth with his hand to stave off the rest, or at least he tried, being that Henry’s own infectious laughter tore into the sounds, and Pyrite’s hand could do nothing to stop the second wave. The sound, thankfully for his composure, was relegated to a full body tremble that was not unlike an imminent breakdown. 

Johan merely wiggled in place, until Henry’s laugh tapered off, and he pulled the man down by his tie to mash them into a kiss. Pyrite almost let out an, ‘ooh!’ but had (some) restraint. (Hardly anyone would have blamed him if he had.)

“Sorry for teasing, honey,” he sighed, relaxing out of his guffaws, a soft smile on his lips. “But you know you’re so cute and irresistible when you’re all flustered and embarrassed.”

While the lovebirds reconciled over the jokes, Pyrite regained his breath. 

“So, a walk?” Johan offered Pyrite when they had all finished their tea, or other drink poured from Satan's teapot.

“That sounds delightful,” he agreed as he stood. “Have you a preferred location or route? Or shall we simply enjoy the fresh air?” 

Johan shrugged, and led him down through the apartment, then out of the studio, and around to his garden.

“You are skilled with the mechanical as well as botany?” Pyrite assumed. The area was rather lush, and well groomed and cared for. “How very Renaissance of you.” However, in his observation, he noticed Johan’s gait. 

It was staccato, uneven. Johan walked with a limp. While he himself hardly could win any races and would soon have to make the decision between his pride in unassisted locomotion or his pride in not falling to the floor, Johan was young. Johan should have that vivacy to his step, not a loping movement that spoke of further damage than what he had previously confided to Pyrite. It explained the cane, which he had assumed to be a fashion choice, and a chill ran down his spine as he realized that Johan had been suffering from this ailment even earlier, even younger.

It was the nadir of manners to ask outright about someone’s constitution. But also Pyrite burned with the sickening need to know, to understand, and to alleviate that burn, he swallowed his own pride and allowed his own measured pace to slow to something less demanding. 

“Do you mind?” he asked, though he’d already made the adjustment. Hopefully, this worked. Alternatively, he would just be offering information about himself and bearing a vulnerability. “My experiences with the ink has left my leg and hips weaker than a man of my age.”

“Ah,” Johan blushed, realizing that his limp had become apparent. “That’s u-understandable.”

Pyrite openly studied Johan then, taking in his appearance and searching out any other lingering infirmities that may have been caused or exacerbated by the situation in which he’d last seen Johan. 

The taller man looked happier, at least, less exhausted and fatigued by a dozen different problems. Perhaps he had put on some weight, but he was still far from a comfortably healthy weight. The cane, as he had just learnt, was not just for show. But at least there were no marks of the abhorrent torture that he had gone through. Nothing physical at least.

“I’m sorry I didn’t come for you.”

Johan peered at him through rose colored lenses, and looked out to his roses. 

“I’m not your r-responsibility,” Johan quietly told him, completely and utterly sincere. “You had your-r own problems to deal with.”

“Not so much a matter of responsibility,” he grumbled under his breath. Then, to Johan properly, he insisted, “There will always be other problems to address. Life is a constant balance and equilibrium of internal needs and external action and I chose to leave you there. It was a calculated choice, but one I made all the same.” 

Pyrite inhaled, trying to draw strength as he filled his lungs. The scent of the flora around them was saccharine, yet still retained its delicate nature. The garden was gorgeous. A testament of beauty grown from scratch. Flowers grew strong and were nurtured with care here. 

“I weighed the consequences,” he said, though he had not yet drawn nearly enough strength to feel confident in saying such things. “I am simply glad you are hale, comparatively, and that your Henry adores you so. You deserve happiness, Johan not-a-douchebag Ramirez.” 

That comment made Johan stumble, and his eyes widened. His jaw clenched, and he clearly thought the opposite.

Pyrite raised up his hand and wagged his finger at Johan. “Absolutely none of that.” Then, he began to list, “You are compassionate beyond belief. You have the patience of a saint. A truly fascinating mind as well. A brilliant smile and a luminescent blush, each warming a room.”

“Stop.” Johan scowled. “Don’t start on that. That doesn’t matter. None of that matters if y-you can’t keep your own family safe.”

“Sometimes we are weak,” he admitted. His expression softened, any jocular levity gone. “That doesn’t make us unworthy.”

Johan merely shook his head, sighing sadly. “I should’ve been m-more careful.”

“And all the care and consideration in the world could have prevented the machine from exacting its desires upon you and the world, I assume?”

“It could have,” Johan curled downwards, spiralling into could have beens and what ifs. “If I had built something to contain the machine before it s-spread that damn virus. Or I could have made a vaccine before it got out of hand.”

Pyrite knelt down as well, taking his place beside Johan. While at first reluctant, the gesture hindered by uncertainty, he reached out for the other man’s shoulder, careful not to startle the man. 

“Or the machine could have found a means of circumventing your attempts to contain it. Or it could have mutated further to a more virulent strain.” Pyrite paused, because just as there were countless ways Johan could have acted differently, there were equally innumerable ways the machine could have retaliated. “Johan, I understand that your very nature encourages exploring all available options, but the existence of alternatives does not necessarily include viability nor efficacy. The root issue is not that the present is inherently flawed due to there being potential alternatives. You need to acknowledge and learn from them without allowing the possibilities to drown you in the present. For good or ill, these choices, made or left undone, have brought you here. For that, perhaps there is some measure of peace to be found in that? That you need not self-flagellate endlessly?”

“I can’t help it,” Johan exhaled slowly. “I keep thinking of all my mistakes, how… how I could have done better. I _sh-should_ have done better.”

“I know. I know.” Rather notably, he did not deny that there could have been a better solution. “But, you can only change the future,” he reminded him as gently as possible. “Ensure it never happens again. Safeguard those you care for from your own mistakes by not repeating them.”

“I’m tryin’ to,” Johan insisted. “It’s just so… there’s s-so many things that could go wrong, you know? And any little thing could send everythin’ dashing out of control.”

“It’s okay, though,” Pyrite told him. Johan looked at him and seemed as though he might burst into tears at any second. 

There was nothing to be done for the other man’s tears except to pull him bodily into a hug and try to collect the heavy, aching sorrow between their bodies and drown out the worst of the pain with a steady, soothing pressure. “It’s okay, especially with friends to help,” he elaborated his previous point. Then, smirking, he added, “So as to avoid the same _mishaps_ of earlier, why don’t you and Henry visit me next month?”

“Oh,” Johan wisely replied, and hugged him back. “Sure. We can come next month.”

“I anticipate your arrival with bated breath. Now, why don’t we continue our walk, and talk of less grave matters. Your choice entirely— and I will do my best not to monopolize the conversation. as wholly as I am inclined.” With that, he helped Johan to stand, quite the sight for two scrawny men, one towering over the other, but not an impossible task. 

Johan’s garden was a lovely place to be in. The roses were in full bloom, and other flowers danced about the edges of the field. A few other workers waved at Johan from other ends of the plot, and clearly were used to Johan being around random strangers. 

“That is Johnny Doe and Allison Pendle,” Johan pointed out. “Perhaps you know a version of them from your own world?”

“Johnny worked magic on the organ and Jack’s heart, and Allison lent her vocal prowess to Alice,” he confirmed. “Chalk that as another constant shared. How close are you, exactly, to them? They certainly appear personable. Friends, perhaps?”

“We all consider each other family,” Johan divulged. “Our studio family is a big one, but it’s the way we like it.”

Warm reassurance suffused through his system at that realization. Good. The man deserved such a support system. 

“You’ve gathered yourself that family.” Pyrite thoughtfully folded his hands together behind his back. “Therefore I presume you trust their judgement. They care for you, and you for them. Surely that counts for something.”

“It does,” he replied. “It counts a great deal.”

“Try to hold on to that. While it might not carry you all the way to more hospitable shores, it will keep your head above the tide.” 

“Mhm,” Johan hummed, joined by the hums of bees. He picked a length of bluebells, looking upon the small flowers forlornly. “It’s been so long. I never know if it’s over or not, but… I’m glad to have my family around me.”

“The cold and the dark seem far removed when someone stands at your side. Cherish what you have with Ray, when his hair is the strands of fate in your fingers and his eyes the stars and endless promises.” His shoulders bowed briefly and his right hand clenched around his left wrist, clearly trying to smother a remembered ache, but the man threw his shoulders back again and moved with animation once more. Pyrite said, “A family is nothing without some bit of gossip. You have an amusement purveyor, a Bertrum. Tell me about him, why don’t you?” 

“Uncle Bertie,” Johan smiled, looking off to a miniature roller coaster built ‘for the bees’. “He rebought the studio for m-me after I, er, went off the map for a bit.” Johan wiped at his eyes. “Uncle Bertie was one of the only people that could tell the difference between me and- and a doppelganger. We didn’t look alike, b-but I’m sure you know how demons can twist people’s perspectives of their surroundings.”

Pyrite whipped his head around so fast to look at Johan he gave himself whiplash, and he sputtered, “Your _what?”_

“Oh, um,” Johan blushed, smiling sheepishly. “I keep forgetting that is not a c-constant. It’s rather odd for me to think of Bertrum as a rival at all. Or a lover! He and I know that’s in a few universes, such as yours, i-is it not? It’s a pretty comical idea for us. And he’s not my biological uncle, though if he was, I may have h-had a better youth.”

His initial surprise and faint amusement faded, replaced by something with warm edges. “Of that, I am certain. But, you have found one another now. Your love is not minimized in the slightest, for that is stronger than the water of the womb, and he would move Heaven and Earth for you.”

“I don’t think you’d like to know the extent of your c-correctness,” Johan chuckled. “I like to joke with him that the crater that was once Chicago was his doing, but we both know th-that it wasn’t. Though it very well could have b-been.”

“You cannot simply drop the information that the gangster and mafia hotbed of the country is a hole,” Pyrite protested. “Ah, but unfortunately the time is wearing on, isn’t it? I will hardly keep you from your Ray much longer, Johan. He must want to remedy his earlier teasing.”

“It’s not in yours?” Johan seemed confused. “But yes, you’re right. I have a meeting with Lacie soon, actually. So, I’ll see you in a month?”

“Then a month it shall be,” Pyrite agreed, and off he went. 


	2. Bubbly

Preparations took him slightly longer than expected, for the simplest of things. The tea, ready. Assortment of biscuits, pastries and other edibles, ready. His own offering of coffee and the attempt at making cocoa how he remembered of his childhood? Took a bit longer, but it was done. A dash of cayenne pepper elevated the drink to something equal parts classy and nostalgic. His office and nearby rooms in the usual blast radius of his mania were cleaned, even, so he felt he had the breathing room to take extra measures to ensure this went smoothly.

However, despite his extraordinary meticulous planning, there were not enough hours in the day to provide Pyrite the necessary breathing room to deal with Henry adequately. 

“I just wanted to check in on an old pal,” Mercury, Henry, said after having let himself in and ignored every sign he was unneeded and unwanted. His voice curled tenderly around the sharp press of his veiled venom. “You have a bad leg,” he reminded Pyrite, as if he had not directly caused said bad leg. “Don’t play me like I’m some monster for being worried for my friend.”

Friend. Pyrite would have laughed, but Mercury was already obviously in a mood and he did not dare press his luck.

Mercury looked at the set up, raising a brow. 

“You’re expecting company?” he questioned, taking a seat himself, leaning back a bit to observe. He seemed rather incredulous, but also amused. “You?”

“Please,” Pyrite deadpanned, “make yourself at home as you insult my social skills.” Despite the sarcasm, anxiety slowly built in his shoulders. Johan and Ray would drop by soon enough, and what would happen if Mercury refused to leave?

“It’s not an insult to remind you that your idea of socialization is scandalous at best and bad for business at worst.” 

As if on cue, because the universe delighted in the most poorly timed entrances, and decided that it had heard enough of Mercury’s idiocy, a green doorway opened, and out came a stout, golden haired man in a golden bubble. 

“Hello there, Pyrite,” Ray smiled. He noticed the other man, and decided to throw him for a loop by referencing those in his own dimension. “Joey’s putting the kids to sleep. Bertrum’s watching them for the night.”

Mercury’s expression went from one of cool solace to one of surprise, settling in for confusion. Pyrite would have laughed, but he knew better than to do so.

Pyrite offered Ray a smile wider than it was genuine and moved to position himself unsubtly between the two. Hopefully Mercury would take the hint, and his leave. “With little ones it can be difficult to find the time,” he said. “I’m glad Bertrum could facilitate matters. How old are they now…? Welcome--”

“Oh,” Mercury called, “tell me again how you stopped playing with magic,  _ Joey _ .”

“My husband made this door,” Ray turned to Mercury sharply, still smiling. “So maybe get your facts straight before attacking the first person you see. And they’re six.” 

“A fun age,” Pyrite chirped, tight with anxiety. “Perfect for getting into things. I bet you have your hands full, and your heart.” 

Mercury’s expression twisted, heralding another comment, but Pyrite launched into a spiel. 

“Henry, Mercury, this is Henry, Ray. Johan has a much more comprehensive explanation but, simply, multiple universes are a reality, more so than the idle speculation before, and Johan and Ray are parallel to ours, meaning some identities and facts are shared and others specific to their world. Because there's the possibility of communication, there’s need of some way to differentiate, hence my being Pyrite to Ray’s Johan. There are more differences beyond simply having multiple versions of one person across the multiverse per alternate choices, circumstances and so on. Such as, Ray and Johan have children. And somehow their Chicago became a smoldering crater. He never did elaborate on that--”

Mercury gripped onto Pyrite’s wrist, his large hand completely engulfing the thinner man’s limb and silencing his words, then stood to his full height. Deceptively gently, he reminded him, “Let the other man have his chance to speak, Joey. It’s not all you, all the time.”

Releasing him, Mercury approached Ray and, if his grin was any indication, delighted in the fact he stood about a foot taller than the bubbled man. “It’s so nice to know my Joey has friends. I was starting to worry. You call yourself Ray? A nice short name.”

“A nice short name for a nice short man,” Ray replied, floating higher to be eye to eye with the other, reading his body language perfectly. His blue and green eyes flashed. 

His own face flickered with his frustration at having his amusement cut short and watching the man refuse to cave to his presence. “How lucky for you, you can rise to meet the heights of those around you. Must come in handy often.”

“Let’s just--” Pyrite stumbled over his words in his haste. “Ah, Ray, when did you say Johan would arrive?”

“He didn’t, or weren’t you listening? Your friend has more important things than you, Joey.” Mercury turned his attention back to Ray, smiling genially. “Sorry about him. He gets so easily excited that he acts like a fool. Why don’t you sit while you wait?”

“You know continuously using the same joke gets droll,” Henry commented. “And what’s wrong with excitement? I love seeing people get passionate about things they care about.”

“In others, I’m sure it’s endearing. But there’s a thing as too far.”

“Hm, I smell some bullshitery coming from there,” Ray remarked, pointing at Mercury, specifically at his mouth. “As long as no one’s breaking things over enthusiasm, it’s fine. And right now I don’t see anything being broken.”

A sneer twisted said lying mouth. “You’re really insulting me in my own home?” Mercury laughed.

“ _ Your  _ home?” Ray rose a brow. “Pretty damn sure this is Pyrite’s place.”

“Only by name on the deed,” Pyrite said airly, aiming for insouciance and falling flat, voice too tight. He chewed his lip, straining his smile. “We needn’t get so ensnared in the specifics and exact delineation of ownership. This was intended to be entertaining and a reprieve, especially from excitable young ones. Nothing as such about legal talk.”

Henry’s eyes narrowed, but before he could talk, the green oblong door opened once more, and a white-blue haired man stepped through. 

Relief broke Pyrite’s posture and apparent unwillingness to move away from his position between the two Henries. “Johan!” he crowed, throwing his arms wide in his excitement and partially obstructing Mercury’s sight and ability to approach the other man. “I’m  _ delighted  _ you’ve arrived at last! Now that the counts are equal, perhaps the excitement will settle.”

“Or it’ll pick up,” Ray joked.

“What have you done?” Johan asked Ray with mild horror in his eyes, knowing that smirk. Henry swooped over, picking Johan up slightly to kiss him with passion, and replied, “Nothing at all, honeybee.”

Mercury restrained his eye-roll and his dismissive grunt, not exactly pleased by the sight of two relative strangers rubbing their relationship into his face. Eying Pyrite from the corner of his eye, he remembered when they used to cause a scene worth tittering over. Now, Pyrite backed away from his watchful gaze like a frightened dog, and this shorter man who had done nothing but insult Mercury this whole time had happiness that was barred to him. He clenched his fists at his sides before shoving them into his pockets.

When they separated (which hardly was a moment, after their short kiss, they merely spoke softly, perhaps about the situation), Johan was set down off his toes. 

Mercury, expecting the man to come back to earth, stared in shock as he glanced down to see that the man was flat-footed! 

“You,” he spluttered eloquently, “you’re taller than I am.”

Unable to help himself, Pyrite lost control of his amusement and coughed to hide the sound. 

“Watch your neck,” he warned, the slightest hint of a smile in his tone. “Shall we take a seat, so as to set us all on the same relative level?”  _ Please,  _ his eyes silently pleaded.  _ Can we have a simple tea from here on? _

Johan and Ray happily obliged him, Johan sitting cross legged (so as to avoid the uncomfortableness of his knees over the table) and Ray sitting beside him. 

“I’ve arranged for tea, coffee, spiced cocoa, approximately half a dozen types of sweets because I haven’t the foggiest as to which are traditional fare.” Pyrite gestured to the plates, each with something different. Scones, butter biscuits, danish, and possibly most out of place, the slightly misshapen, obviously handmade chocolate chip cookies. 

Johan grabbed the cookies first, delighting in the two he snatched. Ray laughed and picked up a scone instead. 

Even Mercury grabbed a cookie as well. At least that much had remained constant about the man Pyrite had known years ago. 

Still, a soft smile on his lips as he noted their choices, he asked, “And, drink orders, anyone? If you care to ramble about your children, I am certainly not disinclined. Or Chicago. Or whatever you like.”

“Tea,” Johan said naturally, knowing that he hated coffee without creamer, and because he would not have cocoa due to his lactose intolerance (for the same reason he would not have coffee because he would rather not throw up in Pyrite’s bathroom). “And the kids-s are good. They’re having fun in kindergarten, th-though Ben still prefers s-sign language. I don’t think he’ll grow out of it, and it’s v-very nice to see all of his classmates try to learn it for him.”

“I doubt he’ll grow out of it if his only r-r-r-role model stutters,” Mercury snarked, and Pyrite faltered in pouring the drink requested. 

“Or perhaps you could view it in the lens of knowing another language,” he chided as sternly as he dared, eyes on the cup.

Johan’s cheeks colored a tad, and he softly remarked, “I’m not nearly their only role model. And he wasn’t supposed to be able to talk at all, and w-was surprising to hear him for the first t-time.”

“You must have been over the moon, hearing him speak,” Pyrite said. “It’s remarkable. What did he say?”

“‘Pass the salt’,” Henry laughed, and Johan chuckled as well, perking up from the rough remark. “We were messing around, and Alice said something, ah, rather salty, and Ben just piped up, ‘pass the salt’. It was pretty darn hilarious. He likes saying little things and quips like that, but he stays away from bigger things .”

“Still an accomplishment,” Pyrite noted, grinning. “You’ve got a young comedian on your hands.”

“There are grown men who can’t manage any witty retorts.”

“Such as yourse-” Ray began, and then Pyrite spoke, cutting him off just in time. 

“Ray,” he said, a bit too forcefully cheerful in his haste, “unfortunately I hadn’t had any eggnog, but, do you care for spice at all?”

“Depends on which,” Ray smiled, glad to not have to face Mercury anymore. “I like most of them. Johan would never admit it, but he can take hot things very well. Like me.”

Johan snorted, rolling his eyes but with a massive amount of love pouring from them.

“Cayenne. It’s just enough to excite the palate and offset the sweet,” he answered. “So, not nearly  _ that  _ hot, unfortunately.” 

“Mm, sounds delicious,” Ray grinned. “I’ll have the cocoa, then.”

“I always did take you for a man who enjoyed some spice.” Perhaps it was a Henry thing, because he also (perhaps a bit begrudgingly) poured Mercury some after settling Ray’s cup. Johan’s eyes seemed to absorb everything, and he scooted just a tad closer to Pyrite, maybe to support him, though his face betrayed nothing.

He poured himself a black coffee and finally he relaxed a little. Everyone had drinks, Mercury had settled for glaring periodically at Johan or Ray, Ray matching the glare with a smirk and Johan completely oblivious, his hand in Ray’s, but nothing exploded. 

“Anything new in the family?” Pyrite asked, trying to instigate conversation a bit more. 

“Linda’s been having a p-puppy crush on one of her classmates,” Johan smiled as he talked, reminiscing on his own little crushes of the past. “One of my employee’s daughters. They’re v-very adorable together, aside from the times they’ve almost b-burnt down the studio.”

“Adorable menaces,” Pyrite jested.

Mercury asked, “Did you not nip the little arsonists’ playtime short after that?”

“Marina is a p-pyromaniac,” Johan informed him. “It’s a mental obsession. We keep it s-safe, nowadays.”

Mercury grunted into his cocoa. 

Color him surprised, but Mercury resisted the urge to make a disparaging comment. Pyrite took the moment to inquire, “Doubtless, if this puppy love doesn’t last, their friendship will remain strong, do you think?”

“You know  _ all _ about lasting friendships, don’t you Joey?”

“They’ve been friends since kindergarten,” Henry ignored Mercury’s remark. “I don’t think anything could really take ‘em apart. And you, Mercury, how’s your family? Your Linda doing well? You know that eventually she’ll see past your lies and leave you just like your other grandchildren and children did.”

“ _ Excuse  _ you?” Mercury’s mouth was open, his eyes wide. “What the hell did you just say?”

“I said that continuing to take everything and give nothing will leave you with nothing,” Ray repeated in other words. Johan put his hand gently on the back of Ray’s. “You do know that the universe likes pulling things like that, right?”

Through gritted teeth, he snarled, “Maybe  _ you _ couldn’t manage to keep control of your own family situation, but I have my family exactly how I want it, and I will go to  _ any _ length necessary to keep them that way.”

“Sure, but doing so will make it fall apart,” Henry warned, and laughed a little. He glanced at Johan, kissed his shoulder, and finished his statement. “I’ve seen families try to force the members to stick, and it always, always, ends bitterly.”

“If bitterness develops, it’s because someone is too immature to put aside their ego for the sake of the family.”

“Maybe  _ you’re  _ the immature one.”

“Mer--  _ Henry _ ,” Pyrite said softly, placatingly, and reached out for the other man’s clenched fist.

“Don’t ‘Henry’ me,” he snapped and jerked it back. He delighted in the fear he saw gleaming in the other man’s eyes. Then, to Ray, he said, “I’m not the one who barged into someone’s place and immediately went on the attack. That is immaturity. What did I do to you to set off this back and forth? Noted your height? It  _ is _ noteworthy.” 

“Look, pal,” Ray rolled his eyes, but a soft, scarred hand on his lips stopped him. Johan looked at him with slightly closed eyes, and he softened. He took Johan’s hand, and kissed the back with a little smile. “Sorry, I went off like that, love.”

“It’s fine, darlin’, but please,” Johan spoke softly, “try not to jump up and st-start barking.”

Pyrite swallowed thickly and ran through a list of possible topics that would avoid future commentary from Mercury. Chicago? Mercury would insult his inability to drop a topic. The children already proved disastrous. He stalled for time by taking another sip, only to find his cup running dry. Still nothing. Saved by the tea kettle going off. He all but bolted out of his chair, then paused as the room spun, only for Johan to stand up as well and smile at the man with nod, briskly heading to the sound with a bit of a jump in his step, perhaps not to worry him with his limp, and came back with the now silenced kettle.

Mercury eyed Johan, silently studying him and mulling over some connection in his head he had just made, eyes narrowing slightly before his Adam’s apple bobbed with a sudden swallow. His posture shifted and he crossed his legs before he looked over where Pyrite sat, a thoughtful rictus twisting his features.

“Pets?” Pyrite prompted when Johan returned, blurting the word out as soon as it came to mind. Johan paused in pouring for Pyrite a second cup of hot water for his coffee, glancing at him. Mercury wished he would sit down already so he could stop staring. “You have bees, correct?”

“Bees and chickens,” Johan smiled, nodding just a tad. He peered at the others in the room swiftly, evaluating if they needed more hot water for anything. He caught Mercury’s eye, and he held the gaze, as though prompting him to speak. Mercury realized that he was silently asking if he wanted more water, so he tilted his cup with a raised brow to indicate he was still drinking his first. Johan blinked, placed the kettle on a coaster, and reseated himself, continuing to answer Pyrite’s question. “But the bees are sentient. Th-the chickens… I’m not so sure.”

“That so?” Fighting a laugh, Pyrite remarked, “Well, at least they have their looks.”

“Speaking of looks,” Mercury began, and Pyrite prayed to whatever deity might listen. Mercury smirked, ignoring the panicked expression on Pyrite’s face. “That’s quite a willowy figure you’ve got there, Johan. Delicate and… effeminate almost. Watching you eat, it’s almost a mystery.”

Johan blinked. If Mercury was trying to insult him, it had gone right over his head. 

“Oh, er,” he blushed slightly, and Ray kept his gaze even on Mercury. “Th-thanks?”

“I’m not really a fan of such girlish hips, but I’m sure Ray enjoys it, right?”

“‘Course I do,” Ray scoffed. Johan squirmed a bit in his seat, not sure what was with the attention, and unsure if he liked it. “I’d love Jo no matter his shape or size. That’s just a perk.”

“It’s nice to see someone who doesn’t have expectations on his partner’s appearance and finds beauty even when their body type isn’t, you know,” Mercury leaned back, gaze flicking coolly from Johan to Pyrite. “Attractive. Typically.”

That earned two red blotches on Johan’s cheeks, and he looked at his hands, hiding the scars on the backs in his lap. 

“Johan’s body type is attractive,” Ray said softly, but not quietly. It was a soft of ‘I would rip out your spleen if you try to pull that again’. Ray studied Mercury’s body language and expression, and let himself smile a bit. “You’ve simply got your eye on my man, don’t you? But you’re trying to ignore that little fact, hm?”

Mercury, sneering, gave Johan an exaggerated, lascivious leer. “Maybe in a dark corner of some seedy bar,” he answered cooly. “Lights off or dim.”

“I don’t drink,” Johan muttered. 

Henry then ventured, with a smirk, “So  _ just  _ his  _ extremely _ gorgeous body type?”

“If you’re suggesting I screw your husband right now,” Mercury growled, leaning closer to the couple (unnoticed, Johan shirked to hide a bit behind Ray), “here in front of you all, I’d do it for the quick f--”

“I don’t believe we ought to be remarking so crudely about my friend’s body,” Pyrite coughed, cutting into Mercury’s _extraordinarily_ inappropriate retort. Johan’s cheeks were bright red, and some small part of Pyrite remembered how young he was. Not much older than a child, really. “Nor implying that Johan isn’t dearly beloved, handsome, and a loving half of a healthy and balanced partnership.”

Mercury spluttered. First Ray stood up to him, then Johan reacted to his veiled insults with confused acceptance, and Pyrite chose now to grow a spine. He snarled, “If Ray wants to put his hands all over a body like that, I guess that’s his choice. Not one that I would  _ ever  _ make, but fine. Don’t get on your high horse when  _ Ray _ had been the one to instigate all of this.”

“Please, s-sir,” Johan spoke suddenly. “If you cannot c-control your words,  _ I _ will d-do it for you.”

“I’d like to see you try,” Mercury taunted, rising to his feet.

With a flick of the wrist, Johan pulled a bulky makeshift computer out of thin air, and after jotting down a few clicks, Mercury found himself being placed back onto his seat. 

He tried to fight the force that drove him to sit, but it was as though the mental commands were lost somewhere in between his brain and his body. Wide eyed, he stared at Johan. He blurted, “That’s not what those are supposed to do.”

Johan merely looked back, raising a brow. Pyrite was gaping at the machine, and Ray had the slightest smirk on his face, the look of ‘I my husband is a genius and I love him so damn much’.

“That--” Pyrite shook his head in amazement. “How did you manage that?  _ That  _ had to be magic.”

“There are n-numbers in the worlds,” Johan answered, trying to figure out how to explain his queer sort of ‘magic’. “Beneath every a-atom and quark.”

“So it seems I have another field to try to study.”

“From what I’ve observed,” Ray cautiously brought up, “Only Johan and my daughter, Linda, who has Johan’s, er, how would you call it, essence? It’s complicated, but long story short Johan saved her life by infusing her soul with bits of his own, so she shares some of his abilities now. I’ve only seen this in them, and it appears to be something in Johan’s genetic coding.”

Pyrite visibly blanched upon hearing that Linda had nearly died. “I didn’t mean to bring up such a tragi--” Intentions mattered little. 

“It’s fine,” Johan spoke softly, calmly. Ray nodded. “What m-matters is that she is safe.”

“Quite,” Pyrite agreed.

“Well aren’t you the sensitive one?” Mercury asked Pyrite, sneering. “You (beep)ing kill a man but a (beep)ing girl nearly gets your (beep)ing-- why can’t I (beep)ing say a (beep)ing (beep) curse?”

Johan’s finger was on one button that blotted out all of Mercury’s tirade, Ray struggling not to start laughing.

“I did warn you,” Johan replied with that gentle voice of his. And by hell, Mercury wanted to make him scream for mercy until it went hoarse, in any method possible. “Surely you must agree that u-unpleasantness should be avoided a-at a nice tea time. So please, u-understand th-this is a precaution, not against you.”

“(Beep) your precautions.”

“Understood, thank y-you for your input.”

Pyrite had a sinking feeling he would pay for this once Ray and Johan left, and yet he regretted none of this evening. Well, perhaps some (most) of Mercury’s commentary toward his friends. He stifled another laugh, hiding the sound with another cough.

With Mercury’s being censored by Johan, the conversation was able to turn much more pleasant, about nuclear testings gone wrong (Pyrite was both horrified and astounded to hear about what had happened to Chicago), about sheep swimming from New Zealand to Australia to relax with kangaroos (that one had even caught Mercury’s attention), and all sorts of other gentle humorous things.

Mercury stress ate half the plate of cookies, most probably because Johan had earlier expressed interest in them and he had little other recourse to spite the taller man. Sheep can swim?! Was one of the thoughts that caught his mind’s attention, and he managed to join the conversation briefly without swearing.

It was pleasant. Relaxing. After all that stress and vitriol spat in the face of their guests, finally the social gathering went off without further hitch.

When Johan started yawning, however, it became quite obvious that they would have to retire for the night, and Pyrite stood to start cleaning. Johan rose as well, arranging the trays with the eye of a valet, able to take much more without having any trouble, and he accompanied Pyrite to the kitchen, Henry and Mercury continuing the discussion about sheep. It was rather interesting to watch the bully of a man quell his spite because of a bleating cotton ball with legs. 

“Johan,” Pyrite began once they were out of earshot. He rested his weight against the counter, both to spare his hips and leg while they washed and to stave off the subtle shifting of positional syncope. “I wish to apologize. It was never my intention for either of you to meet Mercury, nor to allow his comments to get so out of hand.”

“I had been w-wondering about him, actually,” Johan waved a hand inconsequentially. “Before you’d e-even think I’d know him. I see quite a b-bit more than the average person. Now, I will not st-stand to allow him to hurt you once more. I should have given this to y-you ages ago, but unfortunately, due to my mind being constantly on o-overdrive, I have memory lapses. So it is for the best th-that he is here. You’ve seen Henry’s bubble, yes?”

Pyrite tried not to choke on his own breath and sudden shock. He swallowed. “I have seen Henry’s bubble, correct,” he answered carefully, not full sure how this tied into his comment about refusing to allow Mercury to hurt him again. “Johan, you cannot possibly be apologizing for understandably forgetting about something while so overstimulated?” 

“The bubble is stronger than t-titanium,” Johan informed him. “No blows can penetrate it or dislodge-it from temporal s-spatial, er, that is t-to say space-time, alignment, and it meshes around the owner t-to give them full mobility. I’d l-like you to have a bubble, too, to protect you from M-Mercury.”

“You… what?” Pyrite froze and stared at Johan, turning the man’s explanation over in his head. Suddenly overcome, because no one else had gone to any sort of length to protect him and here Johan was with such an offer, he drew in a shaky breath. His voice was still soft when he finally spoke, “Thank you.”

“It’s something I sh-should have done already,” Johan sighed, no doubt berating himself further within. “I n-never should have let you g-go without being shielded. The bubble n-needs either a vocal or a physical callback to be activated. I’d be h-happier knowing you had both. So, what would you l-like as the activator?”

“You had more important obligations,” Pyrite reminded him quickly. “However, what is the need for both? I never cease speaking. A vocalization would suit my needs well enough.”

Johan blinked, then blushed, perhaps ashamed.

“Ah,” he shifted a little, looking at his shoes, and he tried to smile, his lips merely twitching. “Apologies. I have been in s-situations without having access to my vocal cords or w-windpipe, and… fear lingers.”

Reminded of exactly what Johan referred to, Pyrite paled once again, and his mind ran amok with ideas of what else Mercury could do to him, had done to him, and of additional unseen torments Johan had been through. “Of course,” he rasped before swallowing his sudden cotton-mouth. “A very valid point. You’ve put a great deal of thought into this. A gesture as well, then.”

“And what would you like th-them to be?”

“Nothing so grand for the gesture,” Pyrite answered, then gave his wrist a roll and a sharp flick, turning over the palm. “As for the verbal callback…” It took little thought at all. He decided, “Auxzenoh.” 

Johan blinked in recognition. 

He summoned forth his computer, and with a few rapid taps, Pyrite felt warm energy flow into him, and he felt taken back to the day he met Johan. 

“To deactivate i-it, say ‘bubble down’,” Johan instructed him. “Because you’d already be protected, a h-hand motion is not required.”

Much like the day they met, Pyrite wanted to throw himself at the younger man and hug him. However, he restrained himself this time long enough to ask, “Do the either of us have any broken bones to declare before I go hurling myself at you?”

“Er,” Johan glanced at himself, “None th-that I know of.”

As soon as Johan finished speaking, Pyrite collected the man in a tight hug, all sharp edges and bones and no small degree of gratitude. Though he knew he was likely embarrassing Johan, he whispered another, perhaps teary, thank you into his chest. Johan was softer than he expected. It may just have been his natural softness on the inside presenting itself to the world. Johan patted his back, hugging back gently.

“Please stay safe,” he implored. “P-please.”

“Provided you promise the same, I agree.”

“I can’t m-make promises like that,” Johan murmured. “I can try my best.”

Pyrite gripped Johan a little tighter at that, knowing full well how accurate that was. “Then try,” he compromised. “Try your best to stay safe, be happy, and live a good life. You deserve it.”

“I’ll try,” Johan told him.

He and Johan continued cleaning, with Ray somewhat assisting (which led Pyrite to understand that Johan had silently asked him to  _ not _ help the first time they went to put things down). Johan delighted in putting the dishes into the washer, quietly rambling “they go in dirty and c-come out clean!” to no one in particular. 

Pyrite gave the man an odd look but did not comment, though he was curious how a man with the power to warp reality was so amazed by a simple invention. It was rather endearing when he thought about it though. 

“I do appreciate your visiting.” All things considered, hung unspoken but not unheard. Pyrite suggested, “Again next month?”

“If we can,” Johan replied, smiling. Ray took his hand, and now that he was paying attention, Pyrite could see the quarter inch barrier between them, but it seemed like the assurance was what they wanted. Johan noticed him looking, and remarked, “A neat l-little thing, isn't it?”

He and Ray said their goodbyes, and then slipped out from the bright green pathway.

Pyrite’s shoulders sagged and he scrubbed his face, pressing his fingers against his eyes in an effort to ease his headache. “That could have gone more smoothly,” he noted tiredly.

Pain burst across the back of his skull, too blazing hot and sending him staggering forward, both with the force of the blow and with the need to escape. His brain stuttered, syllables catching on a tongue gone dumb with the punch, but his hand instinctively flailed in a messy approximation of the gesture Johan had so recently assigned such meaning to. He caught himself on the wall, warm all over, and braced for Mercury’s next blow.

It came alright.

Mercury howled. The taller man clutched his hand and cursed up a storm, some remaining beeps flickering through his words, not entirely blocking them, but a reminder they had been there. He curled protectively over his throbbing, tingling hand. “You (beep)king broke my hand! You motherf(beep)er!”

“I’m sure it’s not broken,” Pyrite hastily coddled, eyes wide, stunned from the effectiveness. He had not felt a thing. In fact, he felt warm and cocooned.

Secure. Protected in ways he had not experienced in years. Safe from Mercury, at long, longlast. It was enough to make a man’s breathing ease so much so as to go lightheaded. 

Or perhaps that was the blow to the head. 

“Come along and we’ll ice that hand of yours,” he suggested. “This can be the end of this.”

“Go to (beep)ckin’ (beep),” Mercury hissed. He lunged a second time for Pyrite, wrapping his remaining functional hand around the thinner man’s neck, and cried out at the pain that rocketed through his limb. 

Pyrite stared once more, feeling tears prick his eyes and a smile curl his lips in incredulity. He truly was safe. He owed Johan an incalculable debt. 

***

The next time came a bit earlier. Pyrite, feeling lonely and miserable yet free and without any idea what to do with said freedom, went off to Johan’s dimension.

The man was in the middle of a meeting, looking rather bored with a Bendy mask on his face, zoning out. He noticed Pyrite, and nudged Ray, asking him to take over, and left the room with an easy gait (still limping, Pyrite observed). 

“How can I b-be of assistance?” Johan smiled, and Pyrite watched the expression on the mask shift to match the one on his face. Johan registered him looking at it, and smiled a bit more. “It’s enchanted-d. For protection.”

Pyrite wanted to ask more details, but the words caught in his throat. For once, the man swallowed his curiosity as he could not bring himself to speak the words.

“I apologize for the intrusion,” Pyrite said quietly, to start, because he had known Johan to be a busy man and yet allowed his emotions to rule his decision, and suddenly this felt like a poorly thought out action. His entire posture seemed smaller, lacking any hint of his usual bombast, and his spine drooped, as if he had forgotten how to stand tall. Feeling more than a bit childish, he admitted, “I was… lonesome.”

Johan studied him briefly, then lightly touched him on the shoulder. 

Yet again, Pyrite noted just how much heat the taller man radiated, the simple contact warming him, and he fought the urge to lean into the touch. He had not truly felt warm for ages, cold long having made a home in his bones the closer they grew to the surface of his skin. “I’m sorry,” he repeated, thickly. “It’s hard. And I’m exhausted.”

As soon as the words were past his lips, he wished he had never spoken. Johan had more important things to deal with than Pyrite’s misery. How pathetic, Johan saved him from Mercury’s rage and the next thing Pyrite did was whine that he was still unhappy. Ungrateful. Miserable wretch. Pyrite’s fingers found and began to tug at his collar, nervous.

Johan noticed the slight twitch in his posture, the way he wanted to lean but did not.

“You’re touch starved,” he said matter of factly. “You’ve l-lost weight.”

Instinctively Pyrite opened his mouth to deny both, but again found himself unable to speak. Mutely, he shrugged the shoulder without Johan’s hand on it, so as not to dislodge it.

“Have you heard o-of a delightful thing called ‘d-domestic bliss’?” Johan inquired. “It can solve both of those p-problems.”

“Bertrum hates me,” Pyrite mumbled. Not without reason. He knew and acknowledged that, but the brief glares and clipped phrases and overt avoidance… hurt. He tried, yet found himself falling silent when he saw Bertrum’s cold gaze and impartial expression, and more often than not he too would leave whatever room or conversation that involved his ex-lover.

Johan’s eyebrows rose. 

“So you’ve had your eye on s-someone?” he smiled softly. “Well, have y-you tried having a m-mediator?”

Pyrite shook his head. Then, forcing a too wide grin, he added, “There are more urgent consequences to address than m-- than my love life.”

“Such as?” Johan asked, his expression denoting that he did not believe that. “Come along, l-let’s go ring up this fellow of yours.”

Hope flickered across his expression before it settled to a neutral, bland smile. “I appreciate you dedicating the time and effort to this,” Pyrite said.

“It’s no problem,” Johan smiled genially, and they stepped through a portal back into Pyrite’s dimension. “It’s m-much nicer than having t-to deal with meetings.”

Traveling through Johan’s method of dimension traversing was a novel sensation. He had felt two dimensional at one point, and five dimensional at another, and ones and zeros flicked by them faster than the eye could register, and what had felt like a minute turned out to be half a second.

Perhaps it was familiarity at play, but he much preferred the slightly sticky, membranous sensations of his own method.

Pyrite swallowed. “You,” he paused for clarification, “wish to help facilitate my reconciliation with Bertrum?”

“Why not?” Johan asked, “I know that currently your r-relationship is tenuous, with a bit of good will it could g-go better.”

“I hope so,” he muttered, then gestured for Johan to follow him as he began leading him through the building. To Johan properly, he explained, “Piedmont keeps secluded in the lower levels, or else the old test theatre, if unoccupied by other tasks. The man is difficult to find. At least, for me to locate him.”

They walked around a bit, and eventually bumped right into the man.

“Piedmont,” Pyrite gasped, automatically reaching out for the man to steady him only to withdraw his hand. “Ah.” He straightened his back and shifted his weight as he regained his composure. Indicating between each man in turn as he mentioned them, he said, “Johan Ramirez, meet Bertrum Piedmont.”

Pyrite realized then that he had not planned far enough ahead to have a viable excuse for seeking out the man. 

“I wished to speak with you,” he admitted. “Johan is also a dear friend and I had hopes of introducing you both as well.”

Johan bowed slightly, smiling softly. “Johan Ramirez at your s-service, Mr. Piedmont.”

Bertrum eyed the much taller man, a bit curiously, but offered a brief, friendly smile and tipped his ribbon encircled hat, the leather of his gloves gleaming from a recent buff. 

“A pleasure,” he said, though his tone offered little further insight to whether he agreed with that statement as a true brittisher. “You are in luck that I have the time to spare, Mr. Drew, Mr. Ramirez. I skipped lunch. Care to join me, then?”

It occured to Pyrite only now to ask Johan, “Do you have any allergies?” 

“N-none that I don’t know a-about,” Johan smiled, winking. “And that would b-be perfect.”

“Spectacular!” Pyrite cried, abruptly and unnaturally more animated and jovial, gesturing broadly as he set a quick pace ahead of them both, despite the way his leg seemed to drag and resist bearing weight. “Come along.”

As they followed, Bertrum, low enough not to be heard by Pyrite, warned Johan, “If you aren’t certain about this, you still could leave. The man would hardly notice until far too late.”

“And leave y-you two to bumble your w-way about?” Johan laughed just as quietly. “No, s-someone needs to keep things in th-the right direction.”

“Is that so?” he chuckled and shook his head. “Yes, I can see why he is partial to you.”

It was but a short jaunt to the kitchen, empty at this time of day, and Bertrum breezed past them both once there. “Care for leftover rice and roasted vegetables?” 

“Sounds delectable,” Johan smiled, then leaned to Pyrite to mutter. “Ah, is it Prohibition here?”

Holding back his shocked laugh, as he had not pegged Johan as a drinker with his earlier comments, Pyrite shook his head and smirked. There was likely a bottle or two of champagne, or was it wine, leftover from the last time anyone opened the liquor cabinet. Said cabinet contained a bottle of bubbly, a fifth of whiskey and a half drained bottle of brandy.

“Champagne?” he suggested, assuming the hard liquor to be a bad idea for the mid-afternoon timing. Johan face palmed briefly before handing behind his back a bottle of Madeira Verdelho, raising a brow and tilting his head toward Bertrum suggestively.

“Ah,” he said softly, realizing his error. “Thank you.” ‘Thank you’ did not speak or encompass fully his gratitude as yet again Johan helped him far beyond what Pyrite’s disagreeable personality and history or their propinquity merited.

Pyrite accepted the offer gratefully before approaching Bertrum with some measure of caution and cleared his throat. Bertrum turned after placing the meal into the oven to reheat without ruining the taste or texture. “I would greatly appreciate it if you accepted this,” Pyrite said, holding out the bottle with a faint flourish. 

Bertrum’s brows raised at the sight of the wine, taking note of the rarity and luxury of the variety. “Joseph Drew,” he murmured, though he seemed both impressed and moved. “Getting me inebriated will not solve the issue.”

“Of that I have no illusions. Simply, I ask for one meal, where we discuss things as equals and rediscover how to speak to one another, or meet their gaze. To… to reconnect.”

“Are you willing to set aside your ego to listen?” The words themselves were harsh, reminders of every other sharp word and back-handed, sideways comment made to undermine Bertrum in front of a crowd, but his deep brown eyes met Pyrite’s steadily, revealing a hurt beneath the words spoken. “In being equals, it implies consideration, Mr. Drew. It does not imply ownership in the slightest.”

Pyrite swallowed an automatic assurance and a quip. This was no time for a salesman’s smile or for inappropriate levity. 

“I imply nothing of the sort. My offer to you is one of equals,” he insisted. Bertrum hesitated, then looked over at the young man standing slightly behind Joseph. He seemed to have confidence this would go well. Bertrum sighed, and replied, “Very well. I’ll give you this one meal of a chance. Blow it, and it will happen never again.”

Though he fought to keep his head held high, his shoulders struggled with the weight of knowing that Bertrum was entirely serious. After a few false starts and a hard swallow, he said, “Thank you, Bertrum. I acknowledge that and refuse to succumb to recidivism.”

While the two had been talking, the atmosphere of the room had changed marvelously. Well, the room right over, at least, which Johan checked to make sure was empty. There was a nice tablecloth, glasses, and other classy items to spruce it up. Johan had also brought the food there as well (with only two plates, as he had not been planning on joining them, only listening in just in case of emergency), and with a few clicks, he had teleported Bertrum and Pyrite into the room tracelessly.

Idly, Bertrum set the wine bottle onto the table and opened his mouth to continue speaking only to jerk his attention back to the table. “What? How did this happen?” 

It was a beautiful set up. Pyrite glanced about quickly for Johan, the true architect behind the preparation, only to find the man missing. His cheeks warmed and colored slightly. 

“I have a friend who seems incapable of refusing to help someone,” he explained with a gentle smile. Then, he moved to pull out a chair for Bertrum, and let out a whisper-soft sigh of relief as the man accepted the gesture.

They uncorked the wine, allowed it to breathe, and over a few glasses, a thirty plus year gap forged by sharp words, fractious egos and too many secrets became lessened. Chairs scooted closer, a mind bewildered by the listening nature of one, the other stunned that he had ever  _ stopped  _ listening. Laughter passed between them easily, and conversation flowed just as much as the alcohol in the bottle.

Pyrite, much lighter than the last time he had drunk alcohol and having only been able to eat half his meal between their discussion, began to slur quickly, then lose his equilibrium, leaning closer to Bertrum after they had moved ever closer. A bit obvious in his intention, he left the hand not holding onto the stem of the wine glass on the table, an open invitation. 

Bertrum’s hand, metal and flesh combined together and oddly warm to the touch, intertwined with his before the shorter man dragged him to his feet, then held him upright when between his prior injuries and the inebriation Pyrite nearly sank to the floor. 

“Thank you for the chance,” he slurred, pressing the softest of kisses to Bertrum’s hand, ever so chivalrous. “I missed this, this happiness. M’sorry I embarrassed you. M’sorry that I insulted you. Shouldn’t’ve made the deals, shouldn’t’ve ran your name through the mud and dragged you into bankruptcy and ruined your reputation and, and...” He sighed. “And your body. Sorry. Will fix it. Promise.” 

Bertrum shushed him, carding his other hand through his hair and, as he was still the more sober of the two, poured him into bed for the night. (Pyrite woke the next morning with a hangover and a note in a familiar scrawl saying he had earned another chance.)

The next date was  _ with _ Johan, both men managing to wrangle him to stay, very glad of his matchmaking, showing their gratitude with cheer and conversation. Though Johan could not stay too long, they both made their thankfulness to the lanky man quite clear. Both Bertrum and Pyrite were busy for the next few days, but they still spent time together, such as Pyrite bringing him a coffee (extra dark, just the way he liked), or Bertrum coming to share with Pyrite a song that he thought he might like.

Their third date felt much more like one, possibly because they had grown tentatively closer once more, and were more perceptive of the other now. Additionally, they  _ called _ this one a date. Though there was a bottle on the table, they both shied away from it, wanting to keep the night going without an aid, and they were doing great so far for that. 

They finished their meal, and went to Pyrite’s home, the thinner man on Bertrum’s chest as they cuddled on the couch, Bertrum’s hand soothingly running through his hair.

Johan had been right. Pyrite had managed to gain a bit of weight in the last week, and he was much less touch starved. 

Bertrum’s eyes were half closed, not looking at anything in particular, and he was talking about physics, and it was so interesting, and  _ why had he ever stopped listening to him _ ? Pyrite stared at his lips as he spoke, watching the words be formed and expelled, beautifully, eloquently, wonderfully, their pronounciations sending gentle warmth flowing through him. 

“You’re not listening, aren’t you?” Bertrum teased, snapping Pyrite out of his fixation. Pyrite gaped at him with wide eyes, and he blushed. 

He replied, trying to save himself, “Well, Bertrum, I was, but… I got distracted by the instrument rather than the music.”

Pyrite’s eyes kept flicking back to Bertrum’s lips, just enough that he could see the smile appear as though it was morphed with stop motion. His hand gravitated to those lips, and he traced them, breathing slow and even, but powerful, in and out.

“Bert-Bertrum,” Joey softly said, in an exhale. 

Bertrum’s hand came to his cheek, and he smiled encouragingly. He whispered, “You can say it, Joey. I missed you, I missed our closeness. Say it again, and keep it for us, now and ever.”

“Bertie,” Pyrite murmured, a smile on his lips, brow arching in nostalgia and adoration. His finger rested on the corner of the other’s mouth. “Bertie, Bertie, I’ve wished to call you that so long, and had lost it, Bertie, I’m sorry, Bertie….”

His name felt like a prayer, finally spoken after so long, a dam bursting, and Pyrite would never tire of saying it again. At least, so he thought, until the lips he had been touching with his hand came to press against his own, and the familiarity sent his head spinning and a gasp flying from his mouth. Bertrum hummed in contentedness, and Pyrite almost cried from joy. He could breathe again, feel warmth again. Bertrum pulled him closer, and he opened his mouth tentatively for the great park maker, just a bit so he could kiss him as he wanted. To his flustered happiness, Bertrum grinned, yet kissed him deeper, holding him close, making Pyrite swoon onto to him. The motion was so encompassing that neither noticed the door opening.

“What the hell are you two  _ doing _ ?”

Pyrite jerked back, his mouth still open and tingling, the moment shattered by his racing heart and Mercury’s distinct rage.

“I’ve been working so damn hard to fix things,” Mercury sneered, icy rage seething from him. “While you two act like horny teenagers?”

“I take it you define working hard as sitting with your thumb up your rear?” Bertrum asked with a raised brow, pulling himself up underneath Pyrite to sit.

“How dare you, you shi--” Mercury roared.

“I dare with the same damn impunity you assume as you claim to be hard at work, when Joey has to be dragged to sleep or eat?”

“Bertrum,” Joey whispered frantically, gripping onto Bertrum’s lapel and trying to situate himself between Mercury’s approach and Bertrum’s front. “Henry, please--!”

When Mercury’s hand rose to strike, Pyrite did not think. He acted.

“Auxzenoh!” He screamed, and felt the warmth of the bubble embrace him. 

He was certain Bertrum felt it too, seeing as he gasped, “What the blazes--”

And Mercury’s hand landed on Pyrite’s head, the shockwave sending the taller man shrieking back once more. Bertrum watched with massive eyes, his mouth slightly opened. Pyrite clung to Bertrum, breathing hard and fast. 

A few thoughts ran through Bertrum’s mind in short succession. The first, that Mercury had just attempted to strike his,  _ his  _ lover. The second, that Pyrite had been terrified as if he knew what was incoming. The third, that Pyrite would have a horrific head injury were it not for some odd magic that he could only assume came from Johan.

After all that had processed, in a single second that seemed to last far too long, stretched like caramel dripping off the edge of a tong, so, so slowly, Bertrum bodily forced Joey to stop trying to place his thinner body between them and stood up. He had to look up to Mercury physically, but tilting his head, he managed to give the impression of staring down his nose at the brute. 

“If you dare lay a hand on my lover again,” Bertrum warned, ignoring Pyrite reaching for him and begging him to drop it. “You will  _ not  _ like what I’d do to your disgusting hands.”

Without further ado, he turned around to pick up Pyrite bridal style, and walked with his head high out the door. 


	3. Aim, Pull the Trigger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From "When the room flashed green" to "And his eyes opened, in more ways than one" is the ptsd flashback, including and evoking traumatic themes (rape, gore, child abuse, and violence).

Bertrum and Ray had discovered a great deal in common between them. For starters, they both were self assured and high headed folk, both with a great opinion on food and drink. As they grew closer, sharing recipes and chatting or gossiping about the others in their universes, so did Johan to Bertrum and Pyrite, his sweet likable nature growing on them like the soft tendrils of velvety rose petals. Of course, along with the rose, came a massive thorn, that thorn being Mercury’s growing distaste of the man. Well, it had started simply enough, small enough, and then grew into something far more acidic and dangerous.

To Mercury, _Johan_ was the thorn in his side, an invasive and pervasive vine that thickened and pulsed around his hands, preventing him from using them. Like a cornered animal, whose habitat and way of life was being threatened and uprooted, he decided to strike back. He encroached in Pyrite’s living spaces often, acting genial enough, holding his tongue when he wanted to slash and lash out, trying to get a foothold of trust. They seemed to hold their first meeting against him, no matter if he bothered to be on his best behavior and be his most charming self. It was infuriating. However, eventually, even with their wariness against him, Mercury watched as like molasses, the others’ guard dripped down, and they ceased to watch him so attentively.

It was some breathing room, a bit of space to maneuver, yet nowhere near the freedom he previously enjoyed before the two interlopers, Johan especially, had interfered and ripped Pyrite away from him. It was, however, enough that he felt confident enough in his ability to act, provided the right opportunity arose, enough to plan. He waited, and watched, pretending to join into conversation as a guise to his true viper intention.

Opportunity, as all things, did arise, eventually. A saccharine display of camaraderie between the two couples where they decided to cement and formally declare how delighted each was to have the others in their lives, not for the first time, but this one was different, more relaxed. Mercury could have gagged and would have, were it not so counter to his end goal. Instead he smiled, laughed, hidden venom and hidden fangs, and sat poised to strike. His patience knew a limit, unfortunately, and his ability to hide his anger as well, so at one point in the visit he excused himself to the bathroom because he felt he was about to burst. Two solid months and then some, stuck watching his former partners canoodle and rub their newfound happiness in his face, stuck with every violent desire trapped under his skin because he could not lay a hand on either Pyrite or Bertrum without risking the agonizing repercussions. Nor could he strike at Ray, with the same damn bubble enveloping and protecting him, a child behind his mother’s skirt, but honestly, Ray he could deal with. Ray seemed not to have a magic of his own, and was far easier to rile up. 

It was Johan that was the problem, and Johan he _would_ reckon with. Mercury knew Johan wore no bubble himself, protecting himself with what? Nothing? If so, that would simply lead into the perfect opportunity for Mercury.

He rinsed his face in the bathroom sink, trapping just a bit of his anger under cool water. He knew that today would be the day, because if it was not, well, he might as well just slaughter everyone in the house with all his rage. Perhaps that would be plan B. (And, he knew well, it would take time but he had not lost his touch for manipulating Pyrite to do what he wanted of him, so perhaps he would spare him, and him alone.)

But when he opened the door of the bathroom, he saw right across the hall the man who so dangerously spurned him. In opening the door, he opened the door of opportunity. 

The man, the thorn in his side, was absorbed in fixing the tray in his hands, a slight, infuriating smile on his face, soft and focused on his task. He would not notice Mercury come up to him. This could not have been better planned if he had planned for it himself. Stealing up behind him, Mercury placed his hands on Johan’s shoulders, then slipped them further down for a stronger grip in case he decided to bolt, but oh so gentle, despite his raging desire to bruise, break, snap the bones under his touch. He felt the man stiffen, breath freezing in lungs.

“I believe we need to have a talk,” he murmured. Johan’s palpable, tangible fear was intoxicating. It had been far too long since he got to see or feel someone so afraid up close, and to sense it in the man that had torn that from him? It made a grin slowly edge onto his face. “We got off on the wrong foot, and I’d like to address that.”

Lowering his hands once more to join Johan’s, he pushed the tray the man had been in the middle of picking up back down onto the counter. From there it was a simple matter to direct the taller man (that still burned, his blood boiling as his neck craned) through the adjoining dining room and into a chair. Why had Johan not reacted more than appeasing obedience? It had its place and he certainly delighted in it, but it was one-note. Boring. Infuriating. Yet he understood the source, being that Johan had no reason to protest or struggle.

Hiding his growing frustration behind the mask of a concerned friend, he said, “It’s just a quick discussion between friends. We’re friends, aren’t we? Trust me on this.”

Johan, with his eyes wide and posture nervous, hesitated and nodded.

“Now, I know I didn’t exactly help my case, with our first meeting and losing my temper a little, but I was hoping we could be adults about this and set the record straight, get over the past and not hold any grudges.” He leaned over, still standing, but now closer to Johan with his hands laid on the table behind them, Johan placed where he could not see the door, but Mercury could. The back of his legs leaned onto the table, giving him clear access to either the door or the man. Johan looked greatly uncomfortable, unable to sit in a position viable for his legs, giving up and sliding his knees back under his chair. “You see, Joey has a bit of a problem. I love him to death. But he’s got some problems.”

“O-okay,” Johan replied, following slowly. “We all have some problems, h-here and there.”

“I just think he gave you the wrong impression about me,” he clarified. “But I’m glad to hear you’re more reasonable about mistakes and misunderstandings.”

It came as naturally to him as riding a bicycle, with ease as muscle memory returned to the forefront. A quick smile here. A soft, non-threatening laugh there. 

“I know you thought you were doing right by him, but my Joey? You shouldn’t have involved him in magic again. That stuff nearly got us all killed before. He can’t handle that sort of power, Johan,” Mercury insisted. “He can’t control himself. So just undo whatever you did to give him that magic whatever-it-is.”

“M-magic?” Johan seemed confused, and thought back, shirking back when he understood. “You mean the barrier b-bubble? What’s wrong w-with it?”

“Either it’s gone haywire or he’s back to his old ways.” Mercury hefted a sigh, as if dismayed by the recurring behavior. “It shocked the crap out of me when all I wanted to do was hold him so he would calm down.”

“That’s not possible,” Johan shifted, increasingly anxious. “N-not him relapsing, no, that’s possible, it can’t m-malfunction or be tampered with, th-that’s the c-closed source fifth version. I… er, it wouldn’t shock anything touching it without m-malicious intent.”

“You’re wrong,” Mercury insisted, tone brokering no argument, his voice carefully modulated to imply that there was no possible way he would ever harm Pyrite intentionally. “Something must have gone wrong.” 

“I can check the c-crash report,” Johan stuttered, his mind churning. “It starts a video f-feed when the bubble makes a sh-shockwave. I can virtually r-reconstruct what happened and make any repairs needed.”

At first, Mercury did not fully comprehend what Johan had just said and what it meant for his perspective of the incident, but once he did, he knew that he could never allow that to happen. With a not fully faked sense of frantic urgency in his voice, he demanded, “You gave Joey, a man with a clear history of abuse of power, even more power? You need to disable it! When all of us were together, he was abusive to Bertrum. I never could forgive myself if I stood by while Joey got his hands on something that could hurt him again. And it’d kill Joey, if he couldn’t help himself and went back to his old ways. Don’t you get it? To protect them both, you have to disable it.”

Johan shook his head. “If y-you give s-someone a present, d-do you take it back? It’s i-improper. I can t-talk to he and Bertrum about it to see what h-happened, and if there should be any modifications.”

“Why are you being deliberately stubborn here?” Mercury asked, aiming for the stern disappointment of someone with the moral high ground. Johan’s eyes opened wider, all the more confused. “Fine, talk to him, but ‘it’s not proper’? _Really_ ? How fucking dense are you? If you give a kid a handgun, it’s the _proper_ thing to do to take back the gun. Don’t you get that?”

“They’re adults,” Mercury felt rage pour into him when he realized Johan was in a placating mode, defending Bertrum and Pyrite but not at all himself. “Things c-can be talked through w-with them.”

“Joey is an overgrown child!” Mercury snapped and slammed his fist into the table, watching Johan jolt. He leaned toward him to keep him in his seat. Then, he regained control over himself and, coolly, calmly, like the surface tension above a riptide, he continued smoothly, “Maybe you need to leave it up to us adults then. This is our house. Our problems. You should back off and let us handle things the way we always have. What goes on here, between three adults, as you said so yourself, is none of your business.” 

Johan went silent. The living room’s conversation went silent.

Quietly now, he sneered, “If you’re so concerned about what’s proper, you’ll undo everything and _leave._ And never return.”

“Johan?” they heard Pyrite call. Then, with a tad of panic, he called once more, “Mercury?!”

That was his cue, apparently. He had hoped that Johan would listen to reason, but evidently not, and he stoked the fiery well of magic in his core, churning it into a ready-to-burst froth. His smile grew, sharp and too wide, and his eyes gleamed. They were called for again. “Play along, Johan, or else. Is this little stunt worth all this aggravation?”

“Wh-what?” Johan’s voice was trembling. “I d-don’t understan-”

“Leave,” he demanded in a hiss. “And take your stupid bubble with you.”

The door between the dining room and the kitchen slammed open, obviously kicked, and with Bertrum, Ray and Pyrite in the doorway, it was obvious who had lost their ability to use a door properly, what with the protective fury that glowed in Ray’s eyes. He almost seemed taller, or at least more threatening, as if his need to protect his husband had increased his height and presence.

“You and your husband are trouble,” he said with a hint of sing-song, then with a hiss of magic across his palms and an explosion of energy, he flung his will and the ink toward the three, slamming them all against the wall, perhaps using a little less force for Pyrite. He did not want to break him or his spine again, not yet at least.

(Distantly, Mercury noted with no small measure of excitement that while more direct physical means were barred to him by the protection barrier, at least the ink could still do some damage. Once he got Johan and Ray to leave and never return, he would delight in learning just how far he could go.)

Mercury would not go so far as to say he underestimated Ray, but he did have to increase his control over the ink pushing the stout man back against the wall, whereas half the pressure should have, would have, crushed a weaker man’s ribs at the least. Or hips and spine. He smirked at the memory, running his eyes over Pyrite’s completely paralyzed form. Ray’s struggle to escape only made him add more force, growling a bit as he did so.

“You son of a bitch!” Ray shouted, pushing against the flow. “Fils de pute!”

“Already with the insults!” Mercury cried out in faux fond exasperation. Seeing, or rather sensing Bertrum’s struggle to kick his legs, he picked up the pressure again, inadvertently dislodging the man’s hat as he forced him against the wall. This was exhausting. He would need to act quickly. “You and your husband have far too long overstayed your excessive welcome in my home.”

Mercury centered himself, trying to lessen the strain on himself so he could focus on Ray and Johan, the objects of his true frustration and seething anger.

“Things were good, weren’t they?” he snapped to the room, glancing at everyone in his mercy. “When everyone acted in an adult, mature manner, life was good. Everything was fine. Bertrum, _you_ certainly didn’t see anything off about me and Joey’s relationship. Not until Joey started lying.”

Pyrite’s strained breathing came short and fast with the pressure on his ribs, but he nodded and grinned, the expression far out of place considering the fear his eyes revealed. “I’m sorry,” he admitted. “I lied. I lied because I was frustrated and indolent and arrogant and didn’t want to be told my faults. I acted like a child.”

As if praising a dog, Mercury cooed, “That’s right. And you kept lying because it felt good to be pandered to and coddled.”

“Yes,” Pyrite tried not to cry, his smile warbling but straining against emotion. “Yes, that’s correct. I’m sorry, Henry, you’re absolutely right. I’ve wasted enough time with my performances.”

Johan’s eyes studied Pyrite, having been unable to move with Mercury’s body so close to him and denying him any escape. 

“Your hands are shaking,” Johan softly, quietly, pointed out. In playing games and laughing, they all had come to learn that Pyrite’s lying tick was when his hands shook. 

“It’s a stressful situation, for a man as egotistical as Joey to admit he made a mistake,” Mercury snapped. “Like you know him at all. He’s a liar. Self-centered. Takes all the credit and leaves everyone around to break their backs.”

Pyrite flinched at that and the memory it recalled. His hips ached.

“If he got a little roughed up over the years, he really deserved it, and you should have kept. Out. Of. It.”

He punctuated the final word with a sharp, quick backhand across Johans face. 

The three pinned men called out in shock and detestation.

Bertrum redoubled his efforts to kick out at the nearest object he could use as a distraction, glancing about in his horror, and tried to reach at the chair closest to him to knock over.

“Let us go, you piece of manipulative shit!” Ray roared, struggling. Bertrum was thankful for him writhing as well, because he kept Mercury’s attention on himself. Mercury slowly turned to look at Ray, Johan stunned and touching his cheek. Mercury met Ray’s furious eyes, a gentle smile slowly growing on his face. Another slap rang out, Ray howling in anguish as he watched Johan’s head slam to the side. With that, Ray seemed to lose his ability to talk, and he launched into a tirade of, “Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck fuck fuck you!”

Mercury’s grin grew impossibly wider, gleeful, and he slapped Johan six times in quick succession, and then he paused, contemplated, and smashed his fist into Johan’s face. “Aw, Ray, I thought you loved Johan. You should be very careful now.” 

A few droplets of blood trickled from Johan’s nose, and Pyrite saw more injuries littered on his body, injuries from the past, and Pyrite shivered, shrinking in on himself, trying to unsee them. He had not felt so powerless in ages. 

The chair Bertrum had been straining to reach finally clattered down, and Johan tried to take the opportunity of Mercury’s lapse of attention to run away from the man. Unfortunately, Mercury, expecting such duplicitousness, whipped around to see Johan’s attempted escape, snarling with a far too feral grin, “Oh, no you don’t, _dear_ Johan!”

A solid column of ink slammed into Johan’s chest, sending him sprawling to the mercy of Mercury, his back flat against Mercury’s chest, knees bent. One of Mercury’s arms latched over Johan’s arms and front, yanking the chicano flush to keep him in a better grip. His other hand wrapped tightly around Johan’s hips, the hips he had so insulted, bruisingly tight. “It’s a lot easier since you don’t fight.”

It was just the perfect angle for a horrific, abominable act that Pyrite would never live with himself for not preventing, the words spat from Mercury’s mouth sending shivers down his spine and bile rising in his throat not only at the thought, but additionally because even he could not tell if his ex lover would do something like that or not.

“Henry,” Pyrite cried out to him, voice cracking, blinking fast. Bertrum’s head swung to look at Pyrite, a look of both horror and worry. “Henry, please, I _need_ you. I’m sorry. I won’t do it again, I’ll behave, I promise. I’ll do everything. Everything you need, anything you want. Come here, please, you’re pent up, frustrated, _bothered_ , and I can fix that. You know I can! I can make all that frustration turn to pleasure. I always do. Let me. Let me be useful, for once, your toy. Please, right over this table, like the wanton whore we both know I am, I need you and only you. Fuck _me_ , Henry. _Please_.”

Bertrum almost choked, because he had never, in all their years in each other’s company, heard the man speak so vulgarly, especially not of himself, and judging by Mercury’s sneer, it was all too common. He strained against the ink bindings once more.

“Seriously?” Mercury let out a barking laugh, cruel and amused. “ _This_ is turning you on?”

“We both know I’ve always been a depraved slut,” Pyrite whimpered with his false smile, echoing similar statements Mercury had ingrained in him over the years. Johan’s eyes went up to Pyrite’s, frowning, ready to retort against his negative self talk, and Pyrite quickly continued talking to protect the younger man from anything he may say. “ _Please_ , Henry, Mercury, I… I need you, I want you, please, I’m sorry, Henry, let me take care of you, use _me_.”

“What if I don’t want to?” Mercury questioned, encircling like a vulture, smirking as he watched Pyrite scramble for footing. He jerked Johan against himself once more for emphasis as he spoke again, grinning. “What if I don’t want _you_?”

“No.” The color drained from Pyrite’s face, but he tried to keep the mendacious grin in place, realizing what Mercury was implying. It strained to a rictus despite his efforts. He looked over Johan with an overly disparaging expression, feigning incredulity in his fear. “You don’t want him, just look at him! He won’t even scratch the itch! Fuck _me_ , come on.”

“I don’t need to look at him, I can feel him,” Mercury rebuffed sharply. His smirk stretched as he exaggeratedly ran his hands over Johan’s body, earning a growl from Ray. He cocked a brow, slamming his fist into Johan’s stomach in retaliation. Rage was the only noun that could begin to explain Ray’s feeling at the moment. Rage and agony, a yearning to help his love, and being unable to do so in the slightest. “I thought you learned your lesson, Ray? And I’m finding that you two have been holding out on us, oh! It’s not just hips your man’s got, isn't that right?”

Ray merely stared in silent, impotent fury. 

“Me! Look at me!” Pyrite begged, struggling to get the attention of Mercury. “Henry, take _me_ , you don’t want him! Please, Henry!”

“What if I _do_ want him?” Mercury asked, more to hurt Pyrite than in truth. Ray’s brows arched down in righteous anger. He huffed a dark laugh, gazing promiscuously over Pyrite. “You’ve been stuffing your face lately, and honestly, it’s a lot less appealing than the sweetly spry look of this one. Look at his body, too, I think I could ignore his hips _this time_ around.” 

To accentuate his words, he gestured lewdly with his own hips, rolling Johan’s along with him. They could all see the red going over the man’s face, even as his dark tone would shield him.

Mercury stepped back to sit in the chair Johan had abandoned, yanking him along, Johan tripping and falling onto the floor with Mercury’s indelicate force. He pulled Johan to sit between his legs, jostling him to keep him down. Then, in direct contrast to the roughness, he trailed his fingers along Johan’s jaw and angled his face, leaning over him.

“This could have gone so much smoother, don’t you think?” he murmured, just loud enough for all to hear. “If you wouldn’t have been so stubborn. But that’s alright. I’ve already got experience in training whores to be obedient.”

He gently pulled Johan’s head up to press a kiss to his lips, Johan shirking away as much as he could, but unable to escape. In his peripheral vision, Mercury watched his audience with a deep sense of satisfaction, grown even more by the softness of the lips he kissed. 

Bertrum gaped, Pyrite trembled, and Ray _raged_ , sputtering and howling.

Yet Johan refused to react. His lips remained still and unyielding and there was no life behind the kiss, his body stiffening once more.

“Damn your stubbornness,” Mercury snarled. He yanked Johan up, manhandling the Chicano until he was seated on his lap. It had to be humiliating, and obviously unwanted, as he had to grip tightly to keep the man from escaping. In furious response, he slammed him onto his knee, earning the quietest wimper of pain. He reminded him, grinning with the satisfaction of that small sound, “We could have done it my way from the start, nice and easy,” before forcing their mouths together again. He pulled back, and slapped Johan to make his mouth open, hand pressing to his neck. 

“It would have been so much easier,” he snarled before slamming Johan back to his lips. Ray’s screaming set the backdrop to Mercury’s invasion of Johan’s mouth. “Stop it! Let him go!”

Johan tasted like honey and cinnamon. It, he, was delicious. His lips carried a fresh prickling feeling, like a battery pressed to a tongue.

“I’ll kill you! I’ll fucking kill you!”

Soft and silky with minimal fighting back. It made a grin grow on Mercury’s face. The frail body in his grasp writhed to escape, but there was no way he could turn, Mercury made sure of that. The motions only gave him more pleasure.

“Our fingerprints are the same, there’s nothing to implicate me, _nothing to stop me!_ ”

It was almost like the other Henry’s words were nonexistent, as Mercury was on cloud nine with his hands running over Johan’s body, lips locked to the tingly sensation of the other’s. Oh, this? This he could get behind. It was novel, alien almost.

“I’ll tear you limb from fucking limb, let him **go**!”

Pain sliced through his tongue as one of Johan’s canines did the same. Jerking back, he growled, slapping the young man, spitting the blood that seeped from his mouth onto his face.

“I’ll murder you!” Ray shrieked, shaking and thrashing in his ink embrace. The wall creaked and groaned with his efforts to escape. “Get your damn hands off of him! Let him go!”

Mercury glowered at the stout man and grabbed Johan’s jaw again, harsher with his need to _hurt_ and _crush_ turning his fingers to steel, leaving blotchy black and blue bruises beneath a bice beard. Mercury’s own spittle and blood clung to his fingers.

“Try me,” he warned. 

“Henry, please,” Pyrite begged. “Please, just fuck me. You don’t need Johan.”

“Maybe if you were still touchable, I’d still consider it. Maybe you should have thought about what would happen when you involve other people in our business.”

Mercury shoved Johan up and off of himself, getting up himself with ease. He grabbed Johan by his collar, as the man tried to escape once more, and spun him around, forcing him to bend over the table and face the opposite wall, his hand pressing harshly onto the back of Johan’s neck. “Even better from this angle, don’t you think? His hips rather attractive than repelling. I could get used to the view from here. This must be how you can stomach it, Ray.”

Ray let out a wordless scream instead of an answer, bellowing because actions and words both had failed and the injustice of the situation swelled up inside him like he would burst if he remained silent any longer, tears of frustration welling in his globular eyes. The wall behind him cracked with the force of his struggle.

Johan’s voice joined Ray’s, a soft siren of the sea, a final desperate measure.

“Stop.”

“You want this to stop? Undo the bubble. Put everything back to normal. And never come back.”

“I said, stop.” Johan’s voice was quiet, restrained. He still would not fight. “Please stop. I won’t.”

“My request is reasonable.” His words were friendly, even as his fingers hooked into the bright green belt on Johan’s waist, and he tugged.

A by now familiar pain lanced up his arm, and he jerked back at the sensation realizing it had come from the damn belt. Holding the tingling limb close to his chest, he hissed and cursed, and smacked the back of Johan’s neck. He drove his functioning fist onto Johan’s back repeatedly, to ignore his own pain and cause more from himself, swearing, kicking, and punching. The man did not fight back, only asking him to stop, and that only made Mercury strike out with more force. Once the shockwave died down, he grabbed Johan by the man’s collar and threw him to the floor.

“You just _had_ to push me,” he snarled, lifting up his foot before bringing his heel down, and all his weight behind it. 

Johan’s mouth opened in a scream, a blazing bomb siren of, “ **_STOP_ **!”

Before Mercury’s crushing heel landed, with Johan’s screeching cry, the room froze, went black and green for the briefest moment, and he felt… felt something hit him. It sent him stumbling back, and then his body stiffened. At least, that was what he thought happened. The others, except Johan, did not see the flash. What they saw was Mercury seizing up and collapsing, their immovable restraints of ink falling away.

Ray rushed forward, stumbling over himself with his need to be by his husband’s side and comfort him, though it felt too little too late. Turning away those thoughts, he gathered Johan up in his arms, softly whispering to him assurances and sorrows, Johan resting his head against Ray’s chest, his breathing gradually returning to a normal rate. 

“I’ve got you, Joey,” he murmured, rubbing his back. “Are you ok? Is there anything I should do for you, honeybee?” 

“Brandy,” Johan croaked, having once more damaged his vocal cords with his scream, his voice raspy and rough. Ray helped him up, Johan taking off his pin, holding it in his mouth as he slipped off his jacket. He folded it into a pillow and put it under Mercury’s head, pushing the man to lay on his side. Johan looked guilty as he put his pin back on. “He’s h-having a seizure. M-my fault. I c-couldn’t c-control it.”

“ _You_ have nothing to apologize for,” Pyrite said. There was force behind the words, conviction, but the man’s body language screamed of exhaustion and he had yet to move from his slumped position against the wall, watching Johan, yet again, clean up his mess for him. Bertrum whispered a question in Pyrite’s ear, likely asking the whereabouts of the liquor cabinet, if Pyrite’s gesture was any indication. Bertrum kissed Pyrite’s temple before leaving the room to fetch the requested liquor for Johan.

Johan stumbled over and slid down the wall as well. He was excessively pale, his dark skin appearing slightly blue. Ray came with him, peppering little kisses to his face and hands, color returning with each soft touch, asking if he was alright. Johan nodded. Ray asked if he was sure, and Johan laughed just a bit, nodding once more.

In short order, Bertrum returned with the brandy sans a glass, because as horribly nerve wracking as this entire event was, while decorum and propriety had their place still, he could not be bothered. Only the slightest ripples in the liquid as he offered it to Johan betrayed his still shaken nerves. Johan accepted the bottle, tilting his head back to let the liquid into his mouth. Ray winced a bit, taking the bottle. Johan lowered his head, mouth full. Johan glanced at his hands, and realized he did not have a cup to spit the burning liquid into.

He looked at Ray with a blush on his cheeks from more than alcohol, and Ray smiled slightly, pressing his lips to Johan’s. Pyrite and Bertrum looked away when they realized what exactly the couple was doing, exchanging a glance.

Johan’s coughing gained their attention, Ray swallowing as he pulled away from Johan’s lips. 

“Awful stuff,” Johan remarked, wrinkling his nose, squinting. Pyrite’s suspicion that Johan did not drink felt confirmed. “I don’t know how you can stand it, Ray.”

“So says the former alcoholic,” Ray teased, yet his soft smile was tainted by worry. “I love you, you know? Johan, I love you.”

“I i-imprinted,” Johan moaned, gazing at Mercury’s downed and rigid body. “I-I didn’t mean to….”

“I know, I know,” Ray sighed, pulling Johan onto himself, the lanky man curling around him. “Joey, it’s okay. It’ll be okay. I’m here. It’s okay that you imprinted. It’s for the best.”

Quietly, Pyrite asked, “What is entailed in imprinting?” If this were to become a Thing, he would need to be prepared to handle it. 

“It’s when…” Johan began, then looked at Ray pleadingly. 

Ray nodded, and continued for him, “It’s when Johan’s memories, normally those that affect his PTSD, shift onto an assailant. It is a last resort, er, empathy generator?”

Pyrite laughed mirthlessly and, this time, made no effort to hold it back, though it cracked all the same. “That ‘man’ does not have empathy. I’d wager him incapable of it. Hell would sooner freeze over.”

“Johan’s memories would add a bit of ice, there, then,” Ray remarked. 

“Perhaps you will succeed where my ill-conceived and ill-fated attempts failed,” Pyrite sighed, then rested his head atop Bertrum’s. His lover’s hat was somewhere across the room, but if Bertrum had yet to make it a priority, neither would it be his. The familiar scent of diesel and shampoo lingered, and he drank in every ounce of comfort he could find. “I hope so, at the very minimum.”

He felt all too aware of where and how his body pressed against Bertrum’s and how heavily he leaned into him. Nausea built at the realization, only slightly mitigated by the contact, and he struggled to find comfort behind the sudden awareness. Bertrum ran his fingers along the hollows of his collarbones, the tendons in his neck, the warm pulse of his jugular.

“Well,” Johan hesitated, smiling just a little bit. Ray hugged him again, kissing where he could. “He’s going to have quite a b-bit of my memories slamming through h-him. At the very l-least, he’ll get a taste of his own medicine.”

***

When the room had flashed green, Mercury knew that something was wrong. When he was struck across his chest, he knew something was even more than wrong, an inexplicable incorrectness passing through his body. The strike made him wheeze, stumble back.

“You worthless motherfucker,” a soft, gentle voice said, the words awfully juxtaposed to the pain blossoming in his ribs and the tone they were said in. Another kick to his chest, and Mercury realized he was on the floor, slammed down with the mere force of the first blow. A shiny, polished, aristocratic shoe pressed onto his sternum, the toes of which were digging into his raw throat, a weight that he could only wrap his fingers around and attempt to alleviate. “You can’t do anything right, can you? Big old crocodile tears and leers, that’s all you’ve got going for you.”

All he could do was wheeze. Blood? Was there blood in his throat? Chains snaked around him, the shoe was gone, is gone? Is it gone? Mercury can feel himself lifted above time, through time, what was time anyways but more allowance for the machine to tear him apart? Bones ache and ached.

“Give in.” The coo of what, a demand to do what he would refuse. He clung to his sense of self, disgusted with how little there was left. Maybe he should, maybe he is, maybe it was worthless. “Give in.”

Chains are hands gripping wrists, pipes are legs pinning. His mind shrieked of the wrongness, his mind cries at the agony.

And there is a harsh blow across his face.

“You’re pathetic,” _why_ is the man, he suddenly knows his name to be Paul, why is Paul so soft with his words and harsh with his actions? Why does everything hurt so much, why will he not fight back? He tries, raises an arm to protect his face from an incoming strike, only for his wrist to be grabbed and snapped the wrong direction. He could feel a scream in his throat, blocked by a golden glinting chain around his neck. He gasped, and ink filled his lungs, and he is ensnared by the machine. “Give in.”

He chokes around words, he choked around a chain, he is choking in ink, and there is a man in front of him, a man that causes a dread to fill his stomach, worse than the fear of pain, there is a terror of a body no longer becoming one’s own, and he is choking. On what, he does not want to think about, he does not want to know, all he knows is that he wants to be far away, breathing clean air. 

“Give in,” the machine tells him once more, slowly tearing just a little more skin, just a bit more sanity. A merciless thing holding his life in its grasp and refusing to surrender him to the embrace of nothingness. Each pain calculated, weighed, designed to break something else, to flay a bit more flesh from bone, blood from a vein, go a little farther, yet another thing, until there was nothing left to break except his spirit. But he was alone suddenly, and so very cold, stuttering out that he did not have what was wanted. He did not have anything, how could he give them what he did not have? His pleas fell on deaf ears, his small suitcase torn from his hands. Eventually, when they had apparently had enough fun in torturing him, they threw him onto the sidewalk, people stepping around him. He watched the bystander effect blossom around him, and could not bear to ever allow himself in that situation ever again, nor to allow himself witness without acting. He dragged himself forward to get back his strewn items, but he was on carved marble floor, and there was Paul once more. “You think you care about family? You think that’s important to you?”

His hand bled, and he pulled it to his stomach, groaning.

“You’re nothing to your family, don’t you see?” There was a white, shiny smile in his vision. “Never were, either.”

His back slammed to an organ bench, his struggles useless against a single minded goal, amidst the pain, an idea for a belt. 

He is in an alley, too hot, unable to find enough shelter from the merciless elements. He was cold, ice practically growing on his face and limbs. He is chilled to the bone, was boiled under his skin.

He held all he holds dear in his arms, just one soft and small body, clinging to him. 

Regret fills him as he realizes he is bloodied again, no way to cleanse himself of his own gore. Dignity stolen, bruised and battered. Thrown to the dirty streets like trash. His head hurts, his brain a spongy, needle riddled mush within his skull that feels all too warm. Where his head meets his neck feels like boiling water under his skin. The bone feels ready to burst open and let his consciousness spill out over the sidewalk with his blood. 

He is begging. He is pleading, sobbing and silenced with cold metal against his lips. The all encompassing voice demanding an answer he would never give, could never, not so long as he still drew breath into barely held together lungs. Breath that burned, viscera exposed to the air. A throat left torn open. An empty ache where there was meant to be an eye, a stalk of nerves ripped and frayed and shredded. A collar demanding he remember who owns him, if not himself, and it was not himself, it was the man in the doorway, the man with the gun, the banks and the police and anyone who pleased. 

“Give in.”

“Your father, your mother, your step brother, hell, even your own goddamn kid!” He curls in to protect all he cares for, the only reason for his life. “Any of ‘em care? Huh?!”

“You _are_ a sorry sack of shit, aren’t you?” The words melted and burned, and melt and burn, time awash under the barrage of memory and sensation the felt both his and decidedly not. 

Air driven from his lungs, hungry lungs that ached and spasmed and threatened collapse. 

Ribs cracking, bending, pressing inward with each successive blow. Steel connecting solidly with bone and cartilage and winning, metal driving where it should not. A howling affirmation of the words did nothing to appease the machine, nor Paul, and he simply wished for escape.

“Your own family couldn’t care enough to give a shit for you.” Blood bursting across a swollen tongue, spilling over split lips. His own blood on another man’s boot, on too many people’s hands, reaching for him and ripping at him. “Let’s see what you can do. The answer is _nothing_.”

_Bang_.

A bullet tearing through first his heart, held in his arms, then his arm, shattering bone, tearing muscle and tendon. His heart gasps and he cannot fix the light of his life, his reason for being, he can only press a dead body closer to his chest and wish he could keep the heart beating, he would do anything but it is out of his hands, it has been since the trigger was pulled.

_Mercy_ , he screams. _Mercy_ , he begged. And his eyes opened, in more ways than one.

Mercury woke with a sob and a ragged gasp, his whole body jerking like a fish on a hook, spine arching, then immediately curling around the remembered sensation of shattering ribs, broken bones, spontaneous injuries splattered across the whole of his frame, losing the only being he ever cared about. Tears, white hot and shameful, streamed down his cheeks and something deeper inside felt violated, all wrong. He hiccoughed, trembling under the force of every psychosomatic wound inflicted on him-- and the knowledge that he had inflicted the same on others. He touched his face, wondering at the tears, and crimped in on himself once more, tighter. Sniveling, he peered through the film of tears and his fingers, watching the man he had so brutally thrashed receive comfort.

“Good,” he could hear Bertrum snarl, watched as it startled Pyrite. “If this is what it takes for him to act a semi-decent human being? _Good_.”

Quicker than his previously lethargic posture seemed to allow, Pyrite gripped Bertrum’s shoulder. 

“Stop,” he rasped. “Whatever he sees, feels, experiences, I don’t care anymore. Hating him is difficult and has already harmed too many.”

He wanted to call out to Pyrite, the one man in this group that he felt would, might give him the relief and solace he desired. Bertrum hated him, Ray would sooner kill him, and Johan, he had- he had--

His throat ached, raw, with the remembered pain of just what he had threatened to do to Johan.

So that was what it felt to beg for mercy and get it spat back in your face. So that was how it felt to choke on your own blood and fear. Suddenly, there was something less amusing about false-stepping in Pyrite’s direction, in raising his fist, in making him flinch and make himself lesser. Had Pyrite always looked so frail, so exhausted? Had really done that to him, and delighted in it? Had he not cared for either of them before? When had he decided that his amusement mattered more to him than his affection and attachment to them? Not, he could hardly remember, but he knew that he had consciously decided that his fury and resentment entitled him to act like that. That he had earned the right with every hour of overtime, that every time his temper flared, he had every right to release his frustrations on his lover, the one who dared push back against him the most, and the one who technically employed him.

He had loved Bertrum and Pyrite, and had been loved in return, but instead of enjoying it, he sacrificed it all for a heady rush of power. 

The thoughts, the baraging thoughts, the conscience that had so suddenly stepped into the forefront of his mind, caused a low whine, a high groan, slipping from his terse throat.

There were red eyes on him, soft, tired red eyes, and he could not escape their gentle gaze.

“What did you do? To me?” His voice sounded foreign in his ears. Meek. Subdued. He had never spoken so softly, so brokenly, except as part of some act. He fought a cringe. He sounded wrong. Not himself. 

Did he want to sound like himself?

Johan’s eyes rested on his own. 

“I didn’t do anything,” Johan replied, quiet. “You only saw what y-you did to others. Wh-what I went through.”

“I never--” Mercury whimpered and moved to hug himself, pressing his cheek to the hardwood floor. Polished shoes came into his vision, and he wondered how Johan could bear to look at his own feet, with what tortures shoes like that brought. Johan knelt, holding a glass of water, helping Mercury to sit up. Ray stood behind him, silently supporting him, knowing that Johan’s guilt would only worsen if he could not help even his attacker. “I don’t need your damn hel-”

His words cut off as his eyes watered once more, and remembered times when no one dared or wanted to help, and he gaped like a cod, silenced by the memory of being so many times denied the help he begged for.

Johan helped him drink, and the plain water was soothing, refreshing, so sweet and crisp, and _how_ could Johan just give it to him? What was the man made of, solid gold? Did he not understand what he had done to him- No. He had not done that to him. Empty threats and minor bruises that would heal over time, and not very long. At worst, he barely scratched the surface of what he had seen.

It still would not be a bad idea to show his gratitude, such as it was, for the water. “Thanks,” he whispered.

“After what you’ve done,” Bertrum snapped, “be thankful that you're so very lucky that _Johan_ is closest to you.”

Johan winced, shuddering a little. 

“Perhaps, returning to our rightful places in the universes would be the best course of action at this point?” Pyrite suggested. Ray could better protect Johan without Mercury in physical proximity, and he doubted this turn of good fortune would last long. Pyrite wanted Johan as far from here as possible, safe and secure, and maybe then he would be able to breathe easier. 

“Come on, honey,” Ray helped Johan up. Pyrite watched with awe as Ray opened his own portal, green and square, more door shaped than Johan’s. Johan pulled his hand from Ray’s, shaking his head. “What’s… what’s the matter?”

“This is all wrong,” Johan furrowed his brow. “We can’t just go off and i-ignore what happened.”

“I for one have plenty to say,” Bertrum said. “Johan, as the wounded party, however, the floor is yours.”

“I’m not w-wounded,” Johan tried to deny. Everyone looked at him blankly. “Well… maybe a little. Point is… I had a p-point, I think.”

Pyrite wanted to deny both men and insist, but he was hardly about to go so far as to kick Johan out, and at this rate that appeared to be what would be necessary. “How do you suppose we address this debacle and mitigate the deleterious effects of Mercury assaulting you?”

“How about we address the fact ‘Mercury’ is right here?” Mercury asked sardonically. Still very aware of the phantom pains coursing through his body but desperate to regain any bit of his self-worth and dignity, he propped himself up on his elbows so at least he was no longer cheek first in his own snot and tears.

“‘ _I don’t suppose,’_ ” he began with a slight mocking tone, “that we could try to move on from this? I won’t do it again. Any of it.” Mercury suddenly swallowed compulsively, as if fighting back a surge of nausea. “And I never would have actually gone through with it. With what I said I was going to do. I don’t… I wouldn’t. Is that what you want to hear?”

Johan looked like he would be sick.

Tears welled in his eyes, and he covered his face.

“Please don’t s-say anything,” Johan whispered, and Ray wrapped him tightly in his arms. “Please. Don’t you un-understand? I… I c-can’t….” 

Ray shot a death glare at the downed man, then noticed that Johan’s jacket still lay on the floor behind Mercury. He scowled, going over to it, deliberately stomping near Mercury’s hand, icy blue eyes focused on him, the green in his eyes flashing with restrained strength. Mercury flinched, and then only realized that he had afterwards. He had never flinched in his life, aside from when things had accidentally come too close to his head, and the very thought of his own fear made him swallow once more. He looked beyond the trembling Johan, and saw the massive crack in the wall, a shattering of pure strength. 

Mercury realized, with a dry mouth, that if Ray wanted to do anything to him, he would be hard pressed to keep the upper hand. As drained and sore as he was, he was entirely at Ray’s mercy, unable to whip his magic into anything useful. In seeing the glowing door he had yet to take down, Mercury realized that in his panic, Ray simply may not have used his own magic, and the idea of someone so powerful already having even more power sent a chill running down his spine. 

He would not be able to stand against Ray if that was the case. 

Ray retrieved Johan’s jacket, dusting it off lovingly, and slipped it over Johan’s shoulders, floating up in his bubble to kiss him softly.

Maybe, it would behoove him to admit to himself that perhaps his wrongdoing was more serious than he had previously thought, if a man like Ray was so up in arms about it. Now, now that Johan had already begged him to keep his mouth shut, he wanted to apologize. Holding his tongue for the comfort of someone else, at someone else’s request, felt unnatural. 

“Y-You can talk,” Johan murmured to him, shaking. Ray rubbed his back. “Just n-not about… about _that_. Please.”

“Maybe we should go somewhere more conducive to this type of thing,” Ray commented, knowing that the longer Johan stayed in this room, the worse and worse he would feel. “Back to the living room sound alright?”

“That sounds excellent,” Bertrum agreed, lifting Pyrite to his feet and placing one arm around the man’s waist and the other outstretched to hold open the door back through the kitchen and allow their beleaguered guests to proceed. Ray scooped up his husband and carried him through, all the way to the living room, resting him on the couch when he got there.

Because it seemed he was incapable of doing otherwise, Mercury simply watched Johan and Ray. They were disgustingly in love. The same for Bertrum and Pyrite. 

He had seen the sort of disgusting (disgraceful, battering, horrific) memories that apparently sat in wait inside Johan’s subconscious. He knew the short temper and barely restrained vindictive nature Ray boasted. Yet they had happiness. 

He knew from experience that Bertrum was an insufferable, perfectionistic, grudge-holding egotist and Pyrite was an obnoxious, nosy chatterbox whose aspirations were unhindered by knowledge of his shortcomings. Yet they had happiness too. 

Cupping his sore ribs, Mercury gingerly picked himself off the floor because apparently no one was willing to help him and limped past his exes. A small part of him whispered that Johan would have helped him, but he squashed it down. He half expected a comment, a snide remark to match the countless he had thrown at Pyrite for his own limp. Neither man bothered. 

He burned up with jealousy and indignation in equal measure upon seeing Johan and Ray on the couch, gentle with each other and careful, like they each considered the other the most precious thing, Johan’s hands so gentle and scarred, Ray’s soft and large, their lips pressing against each other’s with the most fluid, ebbing kisses, comforting one another with murmuring voice and tender touch. Life was unfair, but this was beyond the pale. 

Before he could open his mouth and stick his foot inside again, from behind him Bertrum hissed, “Move along, Mr. Stein.”

For once, he was thankful for someone else’s orders, and nodded, going into the room and settling into the armchair, staring at Johan’s polished brogues. 

“I want to apologize,” Mercury blurted. He shifted, knowing that his words were excessively weak, sounding possibly even like lies, but he knew that they were not.

“This evening has _exactly_ been what you want,” Bertrum pointed out coldly. “Johan, what would you ask for us to do?”

“What-t do you mean by that?” Johan asked, demure. “I-I don’t n-need anything.”

“Your altruistic nature outpaces your physical and emotional wherewithal, if not today, then someday,” Pyrite muttered. “Mercury is effectively incarcerated here and can remain so indefinitely to provide peace of mind.”

“I… I don’t want that,” Johan managed to say. “I think that… that, that he should earn-n freedom. Indefinite incarceration is ineffective.”

“This is for your sake, Johan,” Pyrite said, voice low and tender, patient knowing Johan’s tendencies and wont to ignore his needs in favor of the wants of another. “Not any other’s. He can only redeem himself for this in consideration to the damage he has wrought, and therefore your esteem carries much weight.”

“Johan?” Ray’s hand gently touched Johan’s wrist. “You’re not there anymore.”

A full body shudder ran through the lanky man. 

“I know,” he murmured. “I couldn’t bear p-putting anyone through something s-similar.”

“Before you decide to play judge, jury, and executioner,” Mercury bit out, “can I please tell Johan I’m sorry? I just… wasn’t really thinking about you at all. Not much. Only the fact that you pissed me off. Ray’s reaction was amusing. And, yes, in hindsight I can acknowledge I went a bit _too far_ but again, I was really only concerned about amusing myself and getting out my anger, not how it would actually bother you.”

Bertrum snarked, “Would you like an excavator to continue digging your hole?” 

“All I’m trying to explain is that when I did all that I wasn’t trying to hurt any of you, so much as get what I wanted.”

“Explanations are n-not justifications,” Johan softly remarked to Bertrum, and backhandedly to Mercury, knowing he would hear. 

He took the bait. “I know that!” Mercury spoke over Bertrum, though now Johan revealed that his planned apology apparently was worthless, he found himself fighting back his growing rage once more. If he lost his temper, he would be bereft of options and shit out of luck. 

Bertrum noted, “I think until you can make an adequate effort toward making amends, you should _think_ about what you have done.”

“I don’t like how this turned out any more than any of you do!” Mercury shouted. Frustrated, he hissed and pressed an arm to his ribs, eager for when the pain would finally stop. Surely sooner than an actual broken rib. How was it that something entirely in his mind could hurt so much? And why did he have to break down his apology to appease them? Did they want to see him crawling like a dog and plead for forgiveness? Absolutely not. If they could just tell him what they needed him to say, they could all get over this and get back to some sort of normal. 

Only the expressions around the room filled him with a sick, heavy feeling in the back of his throat, Johan’s gaze unsteady and teary.

“Johan, I’m _sorry_ for hurting you,” Mercury said as emphatically and sincerely as he could manage. “Ray, I’m sorry for kissing your husband. Joey, I’m sorry for...” 

What exactly _was_ he sorry for? An odd sensation cinched around his throat, like he was choking on possibility.

“I’m sorry for ruining your attempt to socialize and slamming you into a wall. Bertrum, I’m sorry for slamming you into a wall too. And knocking off your hat.”

“That’s fuckin’ it?” Ray barked a laugh. “Don’t you understand that what you did goes further than the surface? Johan’s going to have nightmares about this for a month at least! Don’t you see, this isn't okay.”

“What am I meant to do, wish away all the scary dreams?” Mercury huffed, rolling his far too warm eyes. “It doesn’t work like that, prince charming.”

“Johan cries every night in his sleep, moron,” Ray snarled. Johan hugged him, silent, unsure if he should speak, grateful for Ray doing so. “Active nightmares keep him up, make him go slowly mad with ‘could haves’ and ‘should haves’. You need to tell him that there was nothing he could have done to change what you did, and nothing he should have done differently.”

“But he could have.” Mercury regretted the words as soon as they were past his lips, weighed down and burnt up by the white hot heat of Ray’s death glare, matched by one of Bertrum’s, and Pyrite’s disappointment, but the rest of the acidic words followed like vomit. “He could have just done what I asked, and then none of this would be happening!”

“You damn idiot,” Bertrum groaned.

“And I could have acted differently too, fine, but it’s _done_ , and in the past!” His voice cracked and then suddenly he was on the verge of tears once more, even though he blinked hastily and scrubbed at his eyes. “Why must we go around in circles like this when at the end of the day, I wanted something, Johan didn’t give it, and I did- whatever you call this!”

“A tantrum,” Bertrum stated matter of factly.

“A very fucked up tantrum,” Ray muttered, making Johan’s lips twitch into a smile. Johan kissed his shoulder. “I don’t know what Johan denied you, but it must have been something he had good reason to do so. Joey is a giving, some might say far too giving, individual. We can be the judges of that. What, pray tell, _Mercury_ , did you ask him to give you?”

“ _MY LIFE BACK_ !” he roared, shocking everyone, even himself, but not Johan. Johan only sighed and turned away. At last Mercury lost the battle with the film of burning tears and they rolled down his cheeks. He scrubbed at them furiously, hating his weakness. “Things were normal, as close to fine as you can get when you’re trapped in a house only so large with a self-righteous, gloating, horny teenager and his insufferable, egotistical fuck buddy, just waiting for these horrible damned _things_ from who knows where to come crawling and slithering, hungry and insatiable. And then there’s Ray, Mr. Do-Gooder with a chip on his shoulder and Johan, the apparent _saint_ , who can’t leave a good thing well enough alone! Pyrite was _mine_!”

“I’m no s-saint,” Johan coolly remarked. “I’ve made m-mistakes as well, some unforgivable. Where you are wrong, i-is thinking that you can own s-someone. You can hold their h-heart, like Ray holds mine, but only if they allow. Otherwise… that’s a-abuse.”

“Damn you and your romance,” Mercury snarled, the force behind the words lessened by the sobs clogging his throat. “Damn your definition of abuse too. Joey gave as good as he got. Isn’t that right, _Bertie_?”

“ _You_ broke his arm, didn’t you?” Bertrum asked instead, feeling faint and lightheaded. “Shortly after the first iteration of the machine. That was twenty four years ago. Fifty four, if you count the last thirty.”

“My chair tipped, overbalanced, is all,” Pyrite hastily explained. “I was perched precariously.”

“He knocked it over,” Johan intoned, as though in a daze, and then shook his head, slapping a hand over his mouth. His eyes, already wet from tears, squeezed shut. “I’m sorry. I-I didn’t mean t-to say that.”

A rasp to his voice, Bertrum asked, “How do you know that…?”

“Johan’s got a, er, curse, if you’d call it that,” Ray explained slowly. “Makes him see into the other worlds, feel other’s pains. He can’t control it.”

Mercury buried his face in his hands, trying to hide the unfamiliar shame burning in his chest, the heat going to his cheeks. “I was angry. I wanted to go _home_ . I was tired. And he just _had_ to go over the storyboard again.”

“You’re almost getting it, only to screw it up in the last phrase,” Ray sighed in exasperation, pinching the bridge of his nose. Johan rubbed his back. “It was _your_ anger. _Your_ exhaustion. _Your_ frustration. It’s your responsibility.”

“That _he_ caused.” Mercury smirked like he had just trapped Ray into an airtight argument. The stout man merely looked at him as though he had tried to swallow a light bulb. 

“Just because someone upsets you doesn’t mean you aren’t responsible for your own actions.”

“But I wouldn’t have done it if I didn’t feel justified. And I was. He was nothing but a nuisance, especially then.” Mercury continued, “But I do wish I had never reacted the way I did today. And I am sorry I hurt you, Johan.”

Johan dropped his face in his hands. His voice rasped, and it was so unlike his soft, gentle tones that he normally carried, “C-can’t you see, see that your sense of entitlement _allowed_ you to hurt me? In a day from now, if you c-continue thinking like this, you’ll start to think that you were right in the w-way you acted. You’d spiral into justifications and a-allowances. Your self judged m-mentality is not only toxic f-for yourself, but those around you.”

“It may be toxic but that hurts far less than thinking I wasn’t right!” he snapped. 

“It doesn’t matter if it hurts or n-not,” Johan’s face was tear streaked and blotchy, distressed. Mercury wondered how the man could face him at all. “If it h-hurts that means you feel bad! It means you have a shred of h-humanity, a bit of r-remorse!”

“So I should have just rolled over and took it like a bitch when you ruined my life. Just waited for Them to come and devour me and that ‘shred of humanity’ that’s apparently so wonderful. Great plan, Johan. ‘Hey, Henry, your existence is toxic so you should just let them kill you without putting up a fight’, right?”

“If it would alleviate your concerns, it could be arranged to shatter your pelvis prior to,” Pyrite mumbled, bitter but not enough to dare speak louder. Bertrum reached around him to pull him onto his lap, but when Pyrite went stiff, he paused, reconsidered, and simply held his hand.

Johan jumped to his feet, restless. He was clearly the son of someone who moved around a lot in his work, either a lawyer or doctor. 

“You do things w-without anticipatin’ consequences,” he remarked, hands fidgeting with the need to do _something_. “And when they h-hit you, you play black sheep. Stop taking others’ words from their m-mouths. Wasn’t there ever a-anyone you’d never hurt?”

Automatically, Mercury opened his mouth, and then shut it when he found himself unable to speak. He glanced to Pyrite and Bertrum, eyes settling on the shorter of the two. He opened his mouth, then remembered every time he made a comment designed for cutting, for paring down that ego to size, and how the man’s expression and pride would crumple for a moment, only bouncing up to appease _him_. He shut his mouth. He thought of his kids, and opened his mouth again, only to remember the fact that only his youngest still bothered speaking with him, and shut it. He thought of Linda, his granddaughter, his princess, and thought he had an answer, only to remember, like a punch to the gut, how horribly long after finding Nala, ripped apart and half devoured, that Linda had cried over her pet. He could pinpoint the reason each time, that he was upset, not even always at them specifically, or that he needed something from them and took it without caring how they would feel to lose it. The memory of his wife’s empty gaze hit like a sack of bricks.

“If ya saw your angry self c-coming for ‘em,” Johan continued, almost like reading his mind, piercing red eyes fixed on Mercury’s. “Wouldn’t you want to p-protect them?”

“I…” To his creeping horror, he realized he could not say one way or the other. On the one hand, he was fiercely protective of what was his. On the other, he could imagine trading them for whatever he needed in that moment, because he had, time and time again. “It’s not that I wouldn’t want to protect them,” he finally admitted, the tangled knot of his logic struggling to come loose. “I just know that they would get over it _because_ they love me, so I risked them for my own happiness.”

“You’re v-very lucky to have those that love you,” Johan suddenly seemed sad. No, he always seemed sad. Something about his eyes. But the sadness came to the forefront of his irises for but a moment, then ebbed back into his pupils. “And-d surely you have l-lost, in your love, too.”

“Or they abandoned me,” he corrected, snarling the acerbic comment.

Johan sighed once more, then softly retorted, “Most people d-don’t leave without reason. Especially those that-t love the ones a-around them.”

“Newsflash! Everyone has a reason for doing things. Some people’s reasons are more valid than others. Grudges? Not valid.”

Patience is a virtue, and seemingly one Johan had a never ending well of. 

“F-for some people, the toxicity of bearing and c-carrying around a grudge _is_ reasonable enough to leave,” Johan replied. “You surely know th-that retaliation is something some would-d like to avoid as much as possible.”

“Everything, _everything_ , would be better if everyone just got over themselves! In the long run, what does the occasional harsh word matter? A heat of the moment slap? If they love me, they should show it and overlook a lapse in judgement!”

Johan’s jaw knotted, and he inhaled, and exhaled. 

“A lapse in j-judgement means a wrongdoing,” he explained. “ And humans can only take s-so much of that.”

“So when they give up on me, it’s okay, but when I lose control a little in a fit of passion it’s the end of the world and I deserve to rot for it.” He sneered, and mocked Pyrite’s earlier tone, “ _Indefinitely._ ”

“Johan, he’s not worth it,” Ray plied out of the blue, just as Johan was about to remark. “Seriously, he’s full of… excuses.”

“You’ve never expressed such difficulty in apologizing before,” Pyrite spoke up tiredly. “You were quite skilled at promising improved behavior, at allaying concerns and ameliorating any distress you caused. What is complicating matters, the sudden reassertion of conscience? Can you no longer tolerate the lies you told, so often and so boldly?”

“I want to be forgiven,” Mercury explained. “It’s more than just shutting you up this time, this feels wrong. It hurts. Is that what you want me to admit?”

With undisguised distrust, Bertrum said, “You’ve never once been hurt by what you’ve done.”

“This hurts!” Mercury cried out, spreading his hands to the side, before gasping as a pain spasmed through his arms and shoulders, stemming in his ribs. Johan winced as the heavyset man curled in on himself and glared at him. “Whatever the hell you did to me, it hurts.”

Pyrite remembered how his own ribs had ached, each and every time they broke, every time they _were_ broken, by someone who had whispered ‘I love you’ one minute then crushed a rib the next, and how thankful he had been for the reprieve and relief Johan had given him when they met. He had long ago lost his lust for causing anyone pain, even Mercury, and he unthinkingly wrapped an arm around his chest. Maybe he was unreasonable to wish that Mercury would apologize for everything, let alone wish Mercury would change.

“And it didn’t hurt wh-when you slammed Bertrum into the w-wall?” Johan questioned, gently, far too gently for the words he said. Mercury wanted to see him lash out, scream, fight back, damnit, to see him angry and brutal, but this damned forgiving man only probed his wounded mind, making him shirk back into his own ego and facade. “It didn’t hurt when Ray threatened-d to murder you f-for your actions? It didn’t h-hurt when Pyrite b-begged you to st-stop, calling himself things that-t no one should be called, echoing things that _you_ said t-to him?”

“I _said_ I was sorry! And no, it didn’t hurt then, because I was right! But now all you’re doing is not letting go of it and now it _does_ hurt!”

“Only the c-consequences!” Johan retorted. “What if I h-hadn’t stopped you? Hadn’t s-screamed and panicked? What then? _What then_? Would you still be s-sorry?”

“What sort of monster do you take me for! Of course I’d still apologize!”

“Bullshit,” Ray grumbled, and pointed at the television with a snap, and it flickered on, showing the dining room as it had been, with Johan held firmly to Mercury and the other three pinned to the wall. Johan gasped, and grabbed his Henry’s arm. Ray smiled softly, and kissed his forehead, and murmured to him. “Don’t watch this, honeybee. Pyrite, is there an outside?”

“Down the hall, take a left, there is a swing on the back porch. Sliding doors. Can’t miss it.” Pyrite had a sinking feeling about what they were about to watch, and an incalculable gratitude toward Ray for being able to remove Johan from Mercury’s presence. 

Johan nodded, and as he got up to leave, Ray kissed him softly. 

“I love you,” he told him. 

Johan smiled, and replied, “I love you, too.”

There was the eventual creak of the sliding door, followed by its closing.

Silence reigned supreme for a time. Ray’s eyes were transfixed on the screen, a rage kindled deep within them. 

“Mr. Stein?” Bertrum called gently. Mercury’s head twitched to the sound of the call, but Bertrum waved him off coldly. “Not you. Ray? Are you with us?” 

“Hm? Ah. Yeah. Just… was thinking,” he nodded, then snapped his fingers again, the screen starting to roll the other worldly footage. It felt weird, to Pyrite, to see this, and he knew that it was real, he knew that that was himself, but it also, at the same time, was not. Perpendicular universes, Johan had called them. “Let’s get this mess started.”

For once, he found himself less than eager to learn more about this particular curiosity.

The image flickered, then became stable, and started moving. Mercury could only cringe as his own words played back.

“-eed to look at him, I can feel him.” 

Ray’s face darkened, and he waved a hand speeding up the scene, “None of us need to see that again, I think you’ll all agree on that.”

He resumed a normal pace at the point Mercury shoved Johan off of himself. The audio returned a few moments later.

“-n’t you think? His hips rather attractive than repelling. I could get used to the view from here. This must be how you can stomach it, Ray.”

Ray’s scream through the television made Mercury wince, this time. He sounded rather more desperate and pleading than Mercury had cared to notice before. It was less pleasant, in hindsight.

Only this time, Johan remained silent at his taunting. 

Mercury, the one on the screen, cocked his head, as though expecting something from Johan. He snorted a laugh when there was nothing. 

“Not gonna even say anything?” the not-Mercury questioned, leaning close to the side of not-Johan’s face, the hand on the back of his neck pressing him further to the table. “Nothing?”

“Please!” Ray yowled. “Please! Stop!”

Mercury ignored Ray’s pleas, and leaned back with a grin. 

“I bet you actually want this, don’t you? That's why you won’t fight back,” Mercury contemplated, Pyrite gasping and pleading for him to stop. “God, you actually want this, you needy slut!” 

Mercury’s laugh could not be drowned out enough by Ray’s anguished cry. 

“Boo for you, because I don’t want to _fuck you_ ,” Mercury paused as he grabbed Johan by the back of his neck and slammed his back against the floor, “just want you to _fuck off_.”

He lifted up his leg, bracing himself on the table for a better angle and torque, and brought his heel crashing down, and all his weight behind it.

Something broke. And it was not Mercury’s resolve, not in the slightest.

The screen flickered, and they could hear Johan’s breathing cut, changing drastically. He was not breathing right. 

“Johan!” not-Ray cried, the wall shattering behind him even more. “Johan! Johan!”

They could see blood trickling out of the floored Johan’s mouth, he looking up at Mercury with wide eyes as his body shook with silent coughs. The screen’s color slowly seemed to drain, especially the color within the faces of those on screen, reflected in their other universe counterparts. Aside from Mercury and not-Mercury. Not-Mercury was still dark in his rage, the Mercury sitting in an armchair feeling suddenly sick to his stomach.

“Still not fighting?!” He roared, and his knee slammed into Johan’s chin. The screen flickered once more. A few more kicks, a few more hits, the screen pulsing with every blow, and not-Mercury stopped, rolling out his shoulders as he sneered down at a bloodied man. “Guess you really are a delicate little thing. Ray, you want to save your husband before he chokes to death on his own blood? Just leave and never come back.”

The Mercury not on screen fought a shudder and lost, remembering the sensation of choking without any mercy, no way to stop it. The rusty tang of blood returned to his mind and he swallowed thickly.

The Mercury _on_ screen dropped Ray to the floor, watched him scramble for his husband, but he stopped him by putting his foot back on Johan’s chest, a knowing smirk declaring his preparation and intent to crush the other’s rib cage even more and all within. 

“You need to get ready to leave,” Mercury told him coolly. Ray sat on his haunches, gazing over Johan’s injuries with horror and worry. “I don’t think he’s feeling too good. Better hurry.”

“Please, can… can we use the medical services here?” Ray begged, a broken tone in his voice that sent shivers down Mercury’s spine. He was glad, suddenly, for Ray’s earlier anger instead. “Please, he wouldn’t make it in our dimension, they wouldn’t treat him, please, have mercy….”

Mercury snorted with laughter and smiled gently at Ray. “Absolutely not,” he said, affably as could be. “I could just put him out of his misery if you don’t want to take care of him yourself. _Aren’t you a doctor, Ray_?”

“And as a doctor I can assure you that the medical field in my dimension _has not_ advanced enough to help him!” Ray sobbed, reaching for his husband. “Please!”

“That seems like a personal problem.” Mercury pressed down a little, Johan coughing violently and trying to reach for Ray’s outstretched hand, smiling through agony. “Ah ah. Maybe you shouldn’t have stuck your nose where it wasn’t wanted, knowing how _precarious_ Johan’s situation was. That’s just poor planning on your part, Ray.”

“How the hell was I supposed to know you’d beat him to death!” Ray hollered. “How was _he_ supposed to know?!”

“You and your slut of a husband,” Mercury growled, adding a bit more pressure to Johan’s chest, they could all see him lean. “Should have stopped interfering. Should not have pushed me past my tolerance to be reasonable.”

“‘Enry,” Johan breathed, and somehow, smiled gently, his hand managing to meet his husband’s. “R-Ray… ‘s okay….”

“Henry,” Pyrite sobbed, still pinned. It was clear on not-Bertrum’s expression how badly he wanted to comfort him. “Please, Henry, I’ll never use the barrier again. Johan can’t disable it if he dies, but I will never make use of it again, I promise! I’ll let you do anything to me, anything at all, just, _please_ , let Ray get him medical attention!”

The screen flashed again, dimmer than it was before, as not-Mercury dug his heel into Johan’s chest once more, either deaf to or ignoring the desperate pleas of those around him.

Mercury could not tear his eyes from the screen. He wanted to deny this, to say that he would not have done this, but he could do nothing but feel the heavy urge to vomit.

“Please!” Ray pleaded once more, daring to get closer to Johan. “Please!”

“You really are a broken record,” Mercury noted, boredom evident in his voice. Then, he grinned, wide and friendly, and shifted his whole weight down. It snapped wetly and the screen flashed bright red, a choked gasp, went dark.

No one moved, staring at the black and white grain on the screen.

“Well,” Ray remarked, leaning back. “I didn’t hear any apology.”

His voice was thick yet unexpectedly fragile as he snarled, “I gave you the chance to…” He swallowed the rest of his words and an abrupt wave of nausea. Mercury bolted out of the chair and fell to his hands and knees, heaving and gasping for air like an animal about to be sick, like a dying man with a 268 pound weight bearing down on his chest. When did it become so hard to breathe? He heard himself wheezing and watched tears drip onto his hands and the floor, but could not bring himself to crawl forward. He saw Ray’s scratched shoes quickly pass before him, and bile and vomit and regret surged up his throat and spilled into the bin that appeared in front of him just in time.

“I suppose you didn’t feel the same horror and disgust when you decapitated Norman?” Pyrite asked, wary. 

In lieu of a response, Mercury gagged and threw up again.

“I suppose not.”

Mercury sensed Ray get up, go into the kitchen, and brought him a cup of water. 

“Drink this.” he ordered, cold and sharp like a plague doctor. Mercury shakily took the glass, and as it touched his lips, he quivered with the memory of _Johan_ helping him drink.

“I wouldn’t kill him,” he protested, weakly, the strength to the words stolen by the knowledge that _he would_. “I wouldn’t, I wouldn’t….”

“I need to step outside,” Pyrite said as he forced himself to take a step away from Bertrum, then found Ray’s gaze, meeting his with a question clear in his eyes. Was it too early to bring Johan back inside, or did Ray want to leave now? Ray nodded, an indication to bring Johan back inside.

Pyrite scurried out of the room, as if chased by what he had seen on the screen, and went to retrieve Johan.

The backyard was sparse, especially as compared to Johan’s beautiful garden, but the swing was comfortable, long and held high off the ground, and the area was undeniably alive. Albeit mostly with grass, coneflowers, daylilies, tickweed, all flowers committed to growing in spite of poor water or soil. It seemed to satisfy the pollinators well enough, bees visiting and birds hiding in the trees.

“Johan?” Pyrite called to the man.

The man was sitting on the ground, several bees resting in his hair. He turned to Pyrite and smiled. “Oh! Is it over?”

“That it is,” he agreed, and focused instead on the fact that of course Johan would cover himself in bees, rather than remember that the last time he watched Johan smile, it was with blood tinged lips. “Come along. The day grows long.”

“Alright,” Johan nodded, standing in one smooth motion. He took Pyrite’s hand as they entered.

Johan was warm. Always warm. Pyrite took some measure of solace in that, engrained that to memory. They returned to see Mercury had not moved much at all, except to press his back against the couch, and all eyes turned to Johan.

“That b-bad?” the chicano asked after examining everyone’s faces. “Let me guess - I d-died.”

“I wouldn’t kill you!” Mercury protested, shrill and sharp, voice still raw with stomach acid and tears.

Ray stumbled over to Johan, pure love beaming from his eyes, and he picked him up, swooped him into a dip, and pressed their lips together with a flowing grace and ease. 

Mercury watched them, and for once felt something other than virulent jealousy. He wanted that, oh how he wanted to hold someone tenderly and know that they held his heart, all of it, and adored him, all of him, but the man he was today was a twisted, gnarled thing. He took, and he broke, and he destroyed. If he wanted love, he needed to protect it, cultivate it. Pouring acid over the buds and grinding them into the dirt only made him equally miserable.

For once, he saw beyond the motion of their kiss. It was more than a sensual connection between them, but an assurance, a calming presence. 

A promise.

“I’m sorry,” Mercury said after waiting for the lovers to break their kiss, to rejoin the world at large rather than being lost in each other. “I shouldn’t have done any of it. I was out of line and can’t excuse what I did.”

Pyrite wanted to scream. He could hardly bring himself to react, however, more than tiredly leaning against the doorway, possibly due to exhaustion, possibly because he had been slammed against a wall and he was not so sturdy to escape that unscathed. 

“As delighted as I am by this development,” Pyrite said, though he sounded the opposite, “this has been an unmitigated disaster. The day has gone on long enough. Exhausting ourselves emotionally will result in no favors. Let Ray and Johan return to their universe and recover. Let everyone rest.”

“Home, honey?” Ray asked, holding the man in his arms a little tighter. Johan nodded, leaning his head against his shoulder, closing his eyes. Mercury thought he looked very, very tired. So did Pyrite. And Bertrum. Even Ray, as he opened the door back to their dimension, looked tired. Mercury saw himself in the television’s dark reflection. He looked tired, too. Ray stepped across the threshold, not quite in yet. “We’ll see you soon, aye?”

“I’ve the means to contact you, and you the means to contact me,” Pyrite agreed, hand unconsciously twitching toward the inner breast pocket of his jacket where the card Johan had once given him was still there.

Johan yawned, and nodded, and then slowly nodded off against Ray’s chest. 

Still sick to his stomach, Mercury made himself scarce, though he had a brief moment of indecision deciding whether to go to the door closest to Pyrite, or the door nearest to Ray and Johan’s portal. He settled for Pyrite, unable to get too close to the man he, in another life, in another timeline, had murdered and justified said murder. Pyrite followed him, as though to make sure he knew where he was going, keeping a wary eye on him.

It burned, reminded him of those red eyes that he would be haunted by in his dreams. Both the living, vibrant red, and the dull, lifeless crimson.

When they were gone, and he was certain Johan was asleep, Ray turned to Bertrum, his globe like eyes glinting with tiredness.

“Keep an eye on Pyrite,” he instructed him. “Make sure he eats, ignoring Mercury’s awful comments about that, and check on him so that he doesn’t get overly paranoid.”

“You’re a general practitioner?” Bertrum asked. 

“Er,” Ray looked at Johan in his arms, his expression softening. “Trauma specialist doubling with terminal illnesses. I didn’t want to bring that up at my first meeting with Pyrite.”

He nodded to show his understanding. Softly, he admitted, “He only just managed to get back into the triple digits.”

“Shit,” Ray hissed. “That’s way too damn low.”  
  


Bertrum had known, seen that it was unhealthy, but the degree of Ray’s reaction worried him further. “I will do my best to watch my love,” he said. “I only just got him back. Thank you. Watch your love as well, Ray.” 

“I will,” Ray smiled, kissing Johan’s forehead. “I definitely will.”

They left without a sound.


	4. Heartbreak Hotel

_ ‘So this is what depression feels like,’ _ Mercury thought to himself, staring miserably at his blank ceiling. At this point in these past few weeks of misery, he could just lay and wait for Them without doing a damn thing about it. Yes, he was still able to get up and eat, but it seemed that with every ounce Pyrite gained, Mercury lost a pound. As his own weight dropped and he was still well overweight, nowhere near a dangerous threshold, he only felt guiltier seeing Pyrite’s bony frame through his clothing. He very carefully said not a single word about anything Pyrite ate or did not eat, though the latter hurt like a physical blow each time.

It was miserable.  _ He _ was miserable, and he wanted to do something about it, but he had done so many right damn wicked things, he had no clue where to start. Well, he had an idea. It was just excessively difficult to execute, not only because his strength flagged immensely with the heavy weight of regret on his shoulders, but also having to admit that he was wrong. That may have been even harder for him. Since when were Bertrum and Pyrite the egoists? He felt nauseated every time he contemplated how awfully self centered he had been around them, and he could see now, Pyrite was no egoist, or maybe he was, but in a much more healthy manner than Mercury, but he was just an enthusiast, just like Ray had said. 

He needed to apologize for more than he had breath in his body. His earlier half-assed apologies, twisted excuses and manipulative justifications, echoed in his head every time he attempted to word a better one. He really had the nerve to distill his apology to Pyrite as  _ ruining _ the evening. To add Bertrum’s hat on as an afterthought, because to him, at the time, the need to apologize to either man had seemed trivial. It was not. Not at all. Bertrum glared at him, both when Mercury was and was not even looking at him. The man’s heavy, distrustful watch weighed almost as heavily as Mercury’s guilt. Pyrite walked on eggshells around him, though he occasionally overheard Pyrite letting his guard down around  _ Bertrum _ and behind closed doors, and the worst part was that he remembered Pyrite acting in nearly the same way, years ago, and Mercury delighting in it. 

It was amazing, how much could change in such a short span of time, and yet not enough changed.

The days grew longer, Pyrite and Bertrum both leaving the building or the main living area for their respective diversions. (It occurred to him now that Bertrum was almost as trapped as he was, until the metal could be removed or better hidden, and that Pyrite had an office job, he worked in  _ finance _ , nowhere near his career of choice but a stable option, and he stayed up late well into the night studying and researching the books They had left him. Everyone but him had to make sacrifices.)

A half-baked plan started to form as he whiled away the hours struggling to make himself useful by cleaning the place, fixing any loose screws, wobbly table or chair legs, sealing over the crack in the wall, anything he felt confident enough to attempt to repair. Mercury had not forgotten a moment of that evening, the ‘very fucked up tantrum’, as Ray had so eloquently put it, and he remembered how Pyrite had almost reached for something within his jacket as he agreed to remain in contact with Johan and Ray. 

Therefore, there had to be something in there that allowed him to communicate across universes. 

Skimming through a cookbook as he planned, hoping that for once he could make something that was not burnt, he gauged his time. Most of it, he was alone. Finding a not too hard recipe was a nice distraction, and he came across one for lasagna. That would not be too bad, right?

Of course it would be easy. What could be difficult about layering pasta, sauce and cheese? It was calorie dense and nutritious as well. This was the perfect plan.

He managed to do the first part with minimal difficulty - the can of sauce almost exploded but it was fine in the end. He laid out the silverware and flatware as well and the table looked somewhat presentable once he finished. 

Now he had to wait.

Watching the clock had never been so nerve-wracking, so he picked up one of Pyrite’s magic books to relax. It was rather interesting, if you did not try to use it to summon things from Beyond, and before he knew it, he could hear Bertrum coming into the home. 

An unexpected rush of nerves hit. It was the perfect plan, he reminded himself, even though he now worried that somehow something would go wrong and he would be worse off than before. What if Pyrite assumed he was trying to poison or mock him (he would never, never again, because those sharp cheekbones and scapulae were like daggers every time he noticed them) or Bertrum could tell the sauce came from a can? Bertrum knew his way around a kitchen, knew which foods paired best with each and every spice and alcohol known to man. And here he was, trying to serve something premade and doctored up.

No. He was not about to psyche himself out at the finish line. Before the starting line even, actually, seeing as the true test would come when they all sat down at the dinner table.  _ He _ made something, and even if it was not the best, he would be proud of it nonetheless.

Mercury inhaled deeply, wiped his sweaty hands off on his pants, decided better, washed his hands, then went to the foyer to greet Bertrum. 

Bertrum, who had his sleeves rolled up, whose dress shirt was well-tailored and fit him like he was born to wear it. Bertrum, with his boldly colored waistcoat and suit-jacket that, on any other man, would have looked tacky, but only served to make him look classy, refined, and slightly, tantalizingly eccentric.

Tantalizing?

Suddenly thirsty, Mercury swallowed, saliva catching all the way down. “Welcome back,” he greeted, thankful that there was only a slight rasp to his voice. He needed something to drink.

Bertrum sniffed the air as he hung up his jacket on the coat rack. “Are you cooking something?” he asked, incredulous.

“Lasagna.” Why could he not get his brain to focus, his tongue to cooperate? Every word dragged from his cotton-headed mind like a hook through tar. 

“You look… a bit ill? Did you go running?”

_ Where on Earth would I go running _ , he wanted to quip, but his tongue felt far too thick in his far too dry mouth. “I-- Uh. No, no, I- I am--”  _ thirsty, thirstier than I have ever felt before, I want to, I want  _ “--perfectly fine. Lasagna--” 

“Are you feverish?” Bertrum asked, reaching out for Mercury’s forehead. 

He had a single, too short yet too long, moment to consider his reaction. Back away and protect the truth behind his flustered behavior, or hold still and feel the man’s touch, his dexterous, calloused fingers on his brow?

Too late, he recognized the feel of Bertrum’s hand pressing against his chest, his weight behind it as the shorter man stood up on his toes and leaned against him to reach up for his forehead with his other hand. His heart hammered, knocking against his ribs like a snitch, ready to spill all his secrets. 

“Your pulse is erratic,” Bertrum noted, studying Mercury’s face. To his growing fluster and horror, he felt the heat in his cheeks spread and heighten, even his ears feeling red-hot. “Do you need to sit and  _ relax _ ?”

“Lasagna,” Mercury squeaked again. “In oven.”

“I insist you sit,” he said, frowning at Mercury’s sudden aphasia. He put a broad hand on Mercury’s back, guiding him to the couch he had been on until the man arrived. “There we go. Now, let me see.”

He pressed his chin to Mercury’s much too hot forehead, and Mercury could feel his lower lip in stark detail. He tried not to squirm, and found his eyes focusing on the neck before him. 

The muscles and skin there moved like sand rippling over dunes, each cell in bas relief. 

His neck was right there. Inches away from his lips. He could close the distance between them, slow, serene, or quick and teasing. He could kiss him, soft, apologizing for everything. Right then, right now. Oh, how he wanted to. In fact he wanted more than that, he wanted everything, and having Bertrum so close at hand was  _ miserable. _ Intoxicating, but miserable. 

Because he would not do it. It took all his strength to resist, so much in fact, that he felt moments away from passing out. 

Then,  _ finally _ , Bertrum stepped away, Mercury’s hands balled into fists by his sides, mouth clenched in restraint. 

“You seem fine,” Bertrum hummed, then turned away. “I’ll go get the lasagna. Oh, and do greet Joey when he comes in. He told me that he would be home a bit earlier, today.”

Was that a smirk the Mercury barely caught?

His pent up breath (when did he begin to hold it?) shakily slipped from his throat, and he slumped onto the couch, trying to get his pulse back to normal. There were stars in his vision, and it felt like the image of Bertrum’s neck was imprinted on his retinas. Closing his eyes for a moment, he pulled himself off the couch and rushed into the bathroom, making sure to keep his back to the kitchen. He splashed some water on his face, and scooped a bit into his mouth as well for good measure. Mercury felt himself calming down. 

He could really go for a cold shower right about now, but this would do. He could maintain being proper like this, he could deal with this.

Or so he thought.

When Joey knocked on the door to announce his presence, Mercury dried off his face and went out to greet him, smiling softly, and then he saw him in the doorway. Sunlight streaked around him, shining off the ring of silver in his hair, giving him a halo of refraction. Words failed him, yet he managed to come a bit closer, suddenly feeling a burst of nerves once more that shimmered into pure shyness. 

“How was your day?” he asked, instantly feeling the need for another glass of water. 

Pyrite looked at him with a bit of surprise, then nodded, replying, “It was alright. Getting out early is always a pleasant change.”

“Can I take your coat?” Mercury fumbled, trying desperately not to blush. Pyrite nodded, about to take it off himself, when both of their hands touched at the topmost button. Mercury  _ really _ needed a glass of water now. It was not an apology, it was not an all encompassing magical forgiveness, it was an accidental brush of hands that sent a jolt of electricity zapping its way through Mercury, starting at his fingertips and going up to his head, making him dizzy. The first touches were always the ones that led into the wall slamming, head hitting, lashing outs.

Pyrite held still, stiff, every tendon in his neck and jaw popping, pulse visibly racing at his temple and throat. 

Earlier, that would have made Mercury smirk, push him against and up a wall, sneer and taunt, but now? Now that made a waxing blow of sadness blistering through him.

He had done this.

Mercury proceeded slowly, every movement carefully measured and broadcast well in advance, because there, in Pyrite’s eyes, was fear. Fear, and resignation, anticipation of a blow or a barbed comment. The waves of guilt and remorse steadied his nerves, dampening his rampant desire enough that he could finish gently removing the man’s jacket from his shoulders. 

Their eyes met.

Mercury could feel his heartbeat slowly picking up, getting faster and faster. The coat in his hand felt heavy as his fingers played through the fabric. Pyrite’s body was so close to Mercury’s, chest fluttering in a fear that slowly quelled. 

“I…” Mercury stumbled over his own tongue, mouth dry again. “Joey-”

“The lasagna you made is done, Henry!” Bertrum called from the kitchen. Pyrite raised his brows, surprised to hear that for once Mercury took initiative, and actually  _ cooked _ . “Are you two coming in for dinner or am I going to eat this all myself?”

“Coming, coming, give me a second,” Joey replied, clearing going to see the miracle, and Mercury moved to let him go through the hall without obstruction. 

“Hey,” Mercury managed to say, and Pyrite paused, looking at him. “Thank you. For. Letting me take off your coat.”

“I… suppose you’re welcome?” Pyrite allowed a bemused, tight smile, unsure how to respond properly, though a thousand other emotions flickered in his eyes. Confusion, distrust, and a hesitant hope. “Thank you for offering. It was generous of you.”

Mercury waveringly returned the smile, staying still while Pyrite continued into the dining room. Alone now, he examined the jacket. So small, yet it hung off Pyrite, with carefully chosen notch lapels and a deep bronze color designed to match inoffensively with the outfits of whomever’s arm he was on or standing beside. Mercury slipped his hand along the inside lining, searching for the pocket within. The card he retrieved was shimmering, not as though embossed or laminated, but as if crafted from some sort of metal, but it was far too light. Light. It seemed to be made  _ of _ light. Glancing about, he placed the card into his own pocket, and hung Pyrite’s jacket before hastily joining the other two men. 

Was it just him or was the only available seat closer to Bertrum than he remembered?

Still, he took his seat. His thigh inadvertently brushed up against Bertrum’s and he fought the instinctual, base rush that flowed through him at the contact. Repeating an internal mantra of  _ Keep calm, think unsexy thoughts _ , Mercury fumbled his way through the meal for the most part without incident, aside from when Bertrum’s calf pushed against his for a moment, or when he and Pyrite reached for the same object and their hands touched, or when he caught Bertrum and Joey smiling at one another, and it sent his heart pounding.

“Thank you for going to the effort,” Bertrum said once all had finished eating. “It was rather good. Perhaps you ought to cook more often.”

He was so caught up in the euphoria of Bertrum, amateur sommelier and food critic, praising his efforts that he lived in a world without the knowledge of what extra work that would put on his plate. Eying the portion left on Pyrite’s plate, and the shadows under both men’s eyes, he realized he really did not have much on his metaphorical plate at all. Still Mercury nodded, smiling, glad to be entrusted with the task.

“It was good,” Pyrite agreed, though a jaw splitting yawn interrupted him. 

Once again reminded that arriving early was a rare treat for the man, Mercury offered, “Why don’t you get some rest? I’ll finish cleaning up.”

Pyrite was either too tired to bother with subterfuge, or unwilling, because he narrowed his gaze and tilted his head slightly. “Are you sure?”

He waved off the other man’s hesitation. “Go on. Take a nap, watch a movie. I got this. We do have a dishwasher, you know.”

Bertrum motioned for Pyrite to follow him, and Pyrite nodded, going after his partner. They went all the way to their room, and Joey rose an eyebrow as he sat on the bed. 

“It’s about Henry,” Bertrum told him lowly. “Just a small thing, really.”

“What’s the matter with him?” he asked Bertrum. Bertrum shook his head, a smile growing on his lips. He guessed, “Nothing?”

“It’s a Henry thing,” he replied with a wink. “He seems to be back in the youthful stage of highschool, hormonally at least.”

It took him a moment to process that, then he nearly laughed, stopping himself with a choked noise. “And he dared refer to us as the teenagers held sovereign by our lust.”

“Shall we give him something to lust over?” Bertrum asked, lids low and pupils blown wide, his hand sneaking onto Pyrite’s knee. 

“What in Heaven--?”

Bertrum swallowed the rest of his confusion, locking their lips together, and the hand on his lover’s knee going up Joey’s thigh to rest on his hip. For Joey, after a long day of work, this had been the perfect evening so far, and this? This was just adding to it. 

“Bertie,” Joey whined, because not even a kiss as passionate as theirs was in the moment could stop him from talking, gasping the words though all his breath went away the moment, each and every moment, Bertrum touched him, and everywhere was ‘there’. “Right there, please, I need--” He gave a keening cry as the other man’s hands traveled, untucking his shirt. “Bertie, Bertie.”

Bertrum chuckled, the sound low and gravelly with his own desires, teeth brushing Pyrite’s jaw, soaking in the way the thin man whispered his name like a hymn. “I adore you,” Bertrum murmured, as a promise. 

“I love you, please, Bertie,  _ please _ .”

Around the corner, the remains of dinner having been stored or otherwise disposed of, Mercury  _ burned.  _ He had heard a yelp and a thud, and, worried, ran over to the source, instantly wishing he had not. He was not nearly so distant enough not to hear, and thus not dumb enough to be uncomprehensive of  _ what _ was going on in the room, especially because they left the door open. And why should they not have? It was their home, after all, though it blazed. It was not infuriating, as it might have been once, no, not the burning of anger, but the burning of want and regret and thoughts of days past, and what could bes. He was not nearly in control enough to ignore it, so he did the next best thing and threw himself into a frigid, ice-cold shower. 

It was not nearly enough, a fire burning under his flesh, thin flames licking his every nerve and forcing him to be all too conscious of the press of his fabric against his skin. Warmth pooled in his belly and then lower. Apparently, he had been conned by a wive’s tale. Or he had been excited all anew. Mercury only knew he needed to sleep and to find his own bedroom. Getting there was not too difficult, stuffing his fingers in his ears and dashing past the open (why did they leave it open for Hell’s sake was this  _ meant _ to tease him!?) door of Pyrite’s room. He nearly slammed his own door, but managed, barely managed, not to.

At first, as he lay in his own bed, two pillows over his head and his other ear pressed to the mattress, he felt only a little spited. He knew now, yes, that it was wrong of him to have called his exes ‘horny teenagers’ and he could only think that this was some cockamamied scheme of Bertrum’s to get back at his comments. Then his feelings warped, depositing him in a desolate emptiness of nothingness. Mercury’s mind refused to think, his body refused to move, and his emotions refused to emote. 

Then came the sadness.

The loneliness.

The regret, the faces of those Mercury hurt, those he  _ had _ something with that  _ he  _ ruined. 

Henry pressed the pillow harder onto his head, not to block out the sounds now, but to block out his own damning mind. 

Bertrum’s smile came to the forefront of his mind, the smile he made when he was proud of his accomplishments, a closed lip, puffed chest, twinkling eye smile. The smile morphed into rage when his eyes set on Mercury. His image shattered and refracted away from him. Mercury shook where he lay. His elder son, whom he had been so happy to hold, happy to scold, prideful to see him so adroit, prideful to use him and exploit, joy and regret, elation and guilt, what could he do to make it up to him? Send him a letter with a whole load of hope? What could he do? He curled up on himself, the psychosomatic wounds that he had thought were long gone returning, only those on his ribs, lightly aching, a reminder. Linda, his wife, what had he done to her? Where was her wit, her charm, her love, her life? Everything that made her who she was, Henry had stolen it away from her and their family. A choked whine spurred deep in his throat, and he felt tears trickle from the corners of his tightly closed eyes. Linda, his granddaughter? His lovely, wonderful, beautiful princess? How could he lie to her? Lie to the one that bore his wife’s name? Lie to one that loved him despite his anger? Lie to one as precious as she? How could he? Mercury shivered, and was not able to stop the coldness burning in his body. He was burning hot and freezing cold, the algid guilt colliding with the blazing shame. Pyrite’s grin, coy, diabolical, devilishly handsome, white and wonderful, and then his ribs stitched in agony. Reminding him of what he had done to him, twisting that smile into a grimace of pure pain, contorting it into a rictus of betrayal.

Henry desperately wished that They would come already, to bear him away from these throes of memory, these pangs of what he had done.

Yet, he knew, he still needed to fix what he could. Still needed to apologize and make it up to far too many people. To everyone he could. The card in his pocket pressed to his thigh, and he realized that Pyrite would panic if he realized it was not in his coat pocket, and he was liable to do so very quickly. Mercury understood that he had to transcribe the contents now, return the card to Joey’s suit, and call Johan the next day when the others were out to levy his advice. 

Still, he dreaded to take the pillows from his head. There either would be the two’s voices again, or worse, their silence. 

Their silence that spoke volumes, screamed into the night that they were both so comfortable with one another in a way that Mercury could never, would never, reach, because of his own actions. Whimpering, he ignored his tears as they fell and buried his face in the mattress once more, trying to ignore the task he had to do. 

The bed was hardly even comfortable. He scratched the contact information down on the nearest sheet of paper in his room, 1983/11/7-1711/4/14-602-1929 (why were there so many numbers?).

He carefully distinguished his sevens from his ones, crossing each digit with a meticulous edge, because he did not dare risk losing his chance due to a typographic error of all things.

He stalked down the hall, avoiding the temptation to peek into Pyrite’s room, and returned the card as soon as he could.

Mercury resisted the same urge on his return trip, but hearing his name whispered caused him to freeze in his tracks. Perhaps, by a trick of his riled mind, he had only thought he heard i-

“Henry.”

Hearing it a second time, he knew he had not imagined it. 

“Oh, Henry!”

He stumbled back as though he had been skewered, keeping his eyes glued to the floor in front of him, frozen right past the doorway. 

This one was breathier, reedy with desire, and distinctly Bertrum’s voice. 

What in Hell was the man up to? And in Pyrite’s room no less. 

Unable to help his curiosity, he crept closer to the doorway he previously attempted to steal past. 

“Please,” Pyrite whined. Unlike the last time he had heard Pyrite beg, there was an undercurrent slicing through it, less desperation, less self-deprecation. It was so much nicer for Mercury to hear, and he was ready to write it off as sleep talk, just as thoughts passing after an evening, that is to say, until he heard the next words and blanched. “Henry, I need-- Henry,  _ please _ .”

“He is  _ good _ , isn't he?” Bertrum’s half asleep tones added in, Pyrite humming in his throat in agreement. Henry tried to swallow, twice, because one, that was not true, and two, the words went straight to his hormonally jacked body rather than to his head to be processed. “Henry….”

Even hormones had to meander their way upstairs, eventually, and Mercury finally recognized that both men calling his name were each wide awake and pulling a gag.

It was so very obviously faked, causing his cheeks to heat up in embarrassment of falling for it. He had gotten his hopes up over a mockery. Perhaps that was only just, considering how often he had taunted both Pyrite and Bertrum, but that did not lessen the desire that had speared him or the grief that shackled around his neck.

He could hear them chuckling, and the blush on his cheeks spread all over his face.

With his head ducked, tail between his legs, and a fresh perspective on the embarrassment he put his exes through, he retreated to his own room.


	5. Patchwork

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> quilt of guilt and gay pining and getting better

Mercury was, well, trying. Not his best, you see, because he had never truly tried for something in his life, and trying was very hard already, especially because he had no idea  _ how _ to try.

So technically, it was his best, a very fumbly best.

What he had already done was not enough, he knew enough to know that much, but he had no understanding of where to first begin unravelling the tangled knot of emotional and physical wounds he had placed on those around him. The letter he had penned, scrapped, rewritten and reworded over a dozen times, mocked him with its incompletion. He could not even think of how to apologize to his eldest for his actions. How was he meant to begin to apologize to anyone else, especially since he had eventually stopped with his son? It was evident in his treatment of Joey, as soon as he had the chance to abuse Pyrite again, he had taken it. What sort of man was he?

Not a very good one. Henry could not fix anything, not what he broke, not what naturally degraded due to the passage of time, and while he was learning, it was slow going and rife with mistakes. Over-salted potatoes, a shelf that had been crooked but was now moved to another room entirely because he had failed repeatedly to fix it, and now did not dare put any weight bearing stress on the wall, the occasional too sharp comment that brushed against old wounds. 

At the same time, he could almost trick himself into believing he was making progress. Bertrum did not watch him nearly as carefully. Pyrite did not go stiff immediately whenever he was near. They even smiled at him, and joked with him pleasantly.

It felt… good. It felt good to do good and have it come back.

And there had even been more, simple actions that spoke so loud that words would never be able to encompass them.

It all happened so fast his head spun. 

One second Joey, late for work, was about to dash out the door after offering Bertrum a kiss, when Henry approached to give the man his jacket because there was a chill in the air, and then the next, the shorter man landed an absentminded kiss on his cheek and then bolted. 

Mercury stood still. His body processed the brush of lips on his cheek, the familiarity, the gentleness, it burned with a wonderful warmth that he dearly missed, and his heart raced, but his mind stuttered to a stop like a broken machine. Unconsciously, he lifted his hand to where Pyrite’s lips had been. Oh. 

It was more than the physical effects. It was the knowledge that Pyrite had willingly gotten close enough to him to do so, that he had actually done so. It was a simple action that carried a weight of trust, and his knees felt weak. He felt himself tear up a moment, and turned away only to bump into Bertrum.

“Ah, sorry!” he tripped over his words, eyes clearing fast. Bertrum was looking at him with a slight amusement. Mercury tried to keep a straight face, though failed, possibly because his being straight was untrue. “Er, I’ll just be going-”

Bertrum, damn the man, smirked and crossed his arms across his chest, one hand in the crook of his elbow, propping up his chin with the other, openly studying him and his inability to maintain his composure. “You doing alright, Mercury, my boy?”

“Great,” Henry squeaked. ‘My boy’? Pet names? Endearments? Oh, he was about to pass out, all his blood rushing to be in his cheeks rather than anywhere else, like his brain, where he needed it to be. “I, er, am doing absolutely fantastic.”

“You’re looking flushed once more, is this going to turn into a common occurrence?” Bertrum questioned, stepping towards him.

The right, moral thing to do would be to back up and not allow Bertrum to pull the same stunt as before, Bertrum’s firm hands on his chest and forehead before forcing him to sit and stare at temptation literally inches from his face. He was not a right and moral man. 

“I’m fine,” he insisted. “Really.” 

“Glad to hear it,” Bertrum said, his cheery smile not nearly blinding enough to hide the mischief in the curve of his lips. “Because I would rather not catch something for doing…”

He trailed off and grabbed Mercury’s collar. Not harshly, but with enough force behind it that Mercury had no choice but to obey (at least, that was what he told himself, and hoped he was right [and it was the courteous thing to do {right?}]). 

“This.” The sentence ended with Bertrum landing a kiss to his other cheek, matching the one Pyrite had planted on him. Bertrum obviously reveling in the squeaking gasp that escaped the nearly incapacitated man.

“Despite everything, despite your showman’s prowess,” Bertrum’s grin was unbearable, in the past, but now, it only was encompassing and powerful, and so wonderful. “You have eyes that broadcast your desires like a billboard, loud and clear.”

“I, uh,” Henry replied so very eloquently. “Er, um-”

“Your eyes are telling me that you’d much like to be swept off your feet, like  _ so _ ,” and with that last word, the back of his ankle pressed to the back of Mercury’s calves, a quick knocking motion sending him towards the floor, Bertrum’s muscle lined arm catching him in a dip, Mercury’s heart slamming like he had run a marathon. “What else is it that you want, sweetie? Come on, let your eyes tell me.”

Mercury knew that he was redder than a rose, his eyes trying to focus on Bertrum’s, constantly shifting back to roaming over Bertrum’s face in a panic, often laying on those smirking lips. 

“I see, I see,” Bertrum grinned, and came closer. His voice dropped, low and coy, and Henry glanced at the door to make sure it was closed, glad to see it was. Bertrum’s free hand walked up his chest, gaining his attention. His knuckle brushed the side of his face, turning him to meet his gaze. “There we go, dear Henry. What  _ I  _ saw in those eyes that cannot seem to rest, is a delightful little advancement, don’t you think? You want me to kiss you all over your face, isn't that right? Hm?”

“Bertrum, I,” Mercury swallowed, Bertrum far too close, his smile nearly touching his skin. Mercury forced a smile of his own, it turning out wavering and nervous. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“ _ Not _ all over your face, then?” Bertrum inquired, his lips coming closer, far too close. “Perhaps… you’d like somewhere else?”

“Hell, Bertrum,” Henry tried to sound like he knew what he was saying. “I… er, a-”

His words were silenced by the feeling of teeth grazing his jaw, up the line to his ear, preparing to murmur within. He felt all his tense muscles go slack from the shock. 

“I noticed the way you were so enthralled by my throat, that first time,” Bertrum’s low tones shot pure adrenaline into Mercury, adrenaline his body had no idea what to do with aside shove more blood into his cheeks. His hands were clawed into the back of Bertrum’s vest, holding on for dear life. Bertrum’s hand, the one not keeping him from falling flat on his back, traced over his cheek with an easygoing motion. “Ah, yes. I was practically able to hear your thoughts, my debauchee, always so sensual with you.”

“Ah- did, did you ju-,” Mercury did not know what he was going to try to say, his brain sparking and failing (did he just call him a pervert?) but once more, the words were stolen, his face dark with what Bertrum was lauding upon him, and the elder of the two grazed his lips and teeth back down his jawline, and then, like a shark striking at its prey, pressed a kiss to his neck, his lips still slightly open in their grin, and a rush of air slipped from Henry’s throat. “Nn, Bertrum-”

“What is it, Mr. Stein?” the words were so painfully teasing, Mercury knew, and Bertrum knew. What they did not know was that as Mercury tried to pick himself up, Bertrum was returning to lean over his face. This resulted in the wonderfully awkward thing known as ‘the accidental kiss’. They stared at one another, the grey sky blue meeting deep buckwheat honeys once more in such closeness, until they were snapped apart by Bertrum dropping Henry on the floor. “Sorry!”

Even having the air driven from his lungs could hardly keep him from laughing like a giddy schoolboy. The lack of intent behind the kiss, as opposed to the others before it, felt so innocent and pure and his mouth tingled, the memory making him smile even more. 

“I’m surprised you held me up as long as you did,” he admitted between snickers. The amusement felt purifying, clearing his daze enough to allow him to speak like a human being rather than a caveman. Less of one at least. “You— uh. Are stronger than you look. Not that you look weak! Or bad!”

Well, coherency was nice while it lasted. 

“More muscles hiding beneath that vest than I figured, is all.”

Actually, Mercury decided he preferred being rendered mute with embarrassment and flustercation, because this sort of word vomit was mortifying. 

However, the look on Bertrum’s face denoted pure amusement with the man before him. Nudging him with the toe of his shoe, he questioned, “Is your goal to see said muscles?”

Mercury found himself struck dumb once more, gaping up at the man with his face somehow blushing even more.

So this was how he died. Not devoured by otherworldly creatures. Not drowned in ink. Cause of death: Gay-tality. All the blood in his body rushing to his cheeks and staying there.

He lay on the floor, sinking down fully. 

“Today has been a hell of a ride and it's not even,” he paused, looking at the clock. “Nine. It’s not even nine and I think I’m going to have a heart attack.”

“If it’s a ride you’re after,” Bertrum began with that damning smirk, and oh, Mercury flushed head to toe, heartbeat grinding against his rib cage, with the urge to tear through his chest to leap into Bertrum’s hands, even as his face paled as he prepared for the inevitable crash. Here it came, the shut down. The laughter. The reveal that this was yet another prank, in the same vein as the last one. 

The silence dragged forever.

Then finally Bertrum finished, “I’ll speak to Joey.”

“You’ll what.”

Bertrum laughed, and it was beautiful, clear and lacking in malice, but Mercury still could hardly understand what he meant by such a statement. 

“Oh, speaking of the time,” Bertrum said with ease, instead of elaborating on whatever he meant. “I have to leave as well.”

“Right,” Mercury said dumbly, then Bertrum’s lips were on his forehead, a quick tender touch at his hairline, and his brain shut down again. 

By the time he regained his senses, Bertrum was already out of the door and he was left alone with his thoughts and his sudden aching loneliness. Said emotions clung to him like tar, weighing him down and distracting him even when he tried to make himself useful. The wobbly table leg seemed so less interesting than focusing on the memory of Bertrum’s lips on his cheek, or Joey’s on the other, and it sent a rush of emotions coursing through him once more. 

Emotions that he was not adequately prepared to deal with, even if he had not spent the last seventy or so years actively fostering hate. (Oh, Hell, was he actually that old? He hardly felt it, and boy was that a sucker punch.) 

Still, he felt like a kid again, with awkward crushes, the bumbling about, the stumbling over his own self, and even the goddamn  _ learning _ , the whole shebang. He was learning how to act, and about how god  _ awful _ he had been. Every memory felt like a blow to the stomach.

He truly regretted calling Bertrum and Joey horny teenagers, in hindsight. His head was screwed on wrong, all discombobulated and disconnected from his body except to acknowledge yet again that he was out of his depths. He needed external input that would be harsh enough but still not cruel about it for the sake of cruelty. He needed someone kinder than was rational. He needed Johan’s input. That was his logic for stealing that odd card - and he did not steal it, he borrowed it, no problem, it was back where it belonged already, noticeably removed and replaced. Yes, he had it for a few days (or weeks, maybe) but his nerve constantly failed him to speak to the man.

But today would be the day. Surely. Mercury breathed deeply then let it go, taking with it any steel lacing his spine. Here he went. He was going to call. Surely.

Then it was the end of the day. 

He lay on his bed, a bit startled at where the day had gone. He had definitely done things, he could remember the taste of his baked salmon with vegetables, the feeling of cards in his hands, the sound of music while he swept, the smell of earth as he worked in the garden - where had the day gone? Spent, and spent well, if the nigh happy snores in the room over told. 

Spent well or not, there was still the issue with the phone call, as his anxious mind reminded him. Damn his anxious mind. He never had been anxious before, he must have picked it up from Johan. Was it contagious? The rational part of his mind laughed at the thought. The irrational part said ‘Sure pal. You can think that’.

Mercury crawled out of his bed at some ungodly hour and sought out the landline. Hopefully interdimensional calls cost less than international calls. The sheet of paper he carefully transcribed the oddly long number on had made itself a home in his pocket, no matter which pair of pants he wore, because he assumed every day that today would be the day he could manage this simple task. 

Well, tonight was the night.

Mercury’s hands may or may not have trembled as he dialed. He may or may not have had to slam the phone down and try again several times because  _ why _ was it so difficult to dial a few simple numbers? 

He was scared. Fine, he would admit to it. Johan and he had hardly parted on the best of terms, so forgive him for being a little more than simply worried about calling the man up, potentially in the middle of the night, depending on how time zones worked between dimensions. 

To his immeasurable consternation and relief, he finally managed to dial the man without further incident and waited with bated breath for him to pick up.

The ringing was… odd. Eerie, almost, but also very comforting.

On the third ring, a voicemail or operator answered, reading out (not in any voice he knew), “Hello, you’ve reached the dimension of TBP. Please hold for someone to pick up this line, or state whomever the hell you’re trying to reach.”

What was Johan’s full name? Oh,  _ Hell _ , Joey had mentioned it before but it was back during the time when Mercury was still in the habit of tuning the man out more often than not, aside from the times he pointed out what he saw as flaws or problems or seethed in anger. 

“Johan?” He tried. “Johan Joey Drew?”

That had to be close enough, right?

“Seriously,  _ that  _ guy?” 

“Yes,” he confirmed, a bit too defensively. 

“Alright, I’ll put you through,” the voice sighed, then turned bemused. “... Are you sure you don’t want to talk to someone more your type? Like, hm. Paul Drew for instance? Did you do any research on that fellow? I do believe that there is one in your dimension very similar to the one here, though there might not be a  _ Johan Icarus ‘Joey’ Ramirez Drew _ . Paul may have finished ‘your’ Johan off early on in the timeline. That is to say, if there is a Paul Drew in your world.”

That sounded familiar. Alarming, but familiar. Johan Icarus… that long one. Was Icarus the waxwing guy? Whatever. “Yes,” he confirmed yet again, patience running short and long underused. “Johan Icarus. Please just patch me through already.”

“Alright, you slightly moronic fool,” the person muttered. There was slightly feral cackling in the background that seemed slightly familiar. “By the by, have fun being the one to interrupt Ray.”

“Wait, what?”

There was another ring, then the phone was picked up sharply. He could hear Johan laughing, and a quiet ‘damnit’ from Ray. 

“Hello, this is Dr. Stein speaking,” Ray said, only with a bit of acidity. “Now, if you’ll kindly explain why you’re calling at two am and while I’m in the middle of kissing my husband senseless-”

“Henry!”   
  


“- do so now.”

He was not often at a loss for words, but apparently tonight was a night of firsts. “Uh, your husband, let me speak to him. Please?”   
  


The other Henry paused. He could hear Johan murmuring a question.

“Excuse me,” Ray cleared his throat, “Which Henry is this?”

Did he dare risk lying? No. No, he did not. And how could he have? He hardly knew any others.

“It’s… Mercury,” he admitted softly, then held the phone away from his ear in anticipation of a scream. None came, and instead there was a quiet question and response on the other end. He could sense the phone being passed between hands. There was a pause.

“I-- yes, it’s late, but don’t hang up,” Mercury blurted. 

“You’ve cl-clearly gone out of your way to m-make this call,” Johan’s stutter was relieving. Mercury could have fainted dead away with his relief. “How c-can I help you?

“I’m not sure,” he admitted with a bit of hesitancy in his voice. “Is there a time we can actually talk? When you’re not… busy? Ray can come and make sure I behave, I just need some help. With Joey and Bertrum.”

“Ah. I w-was wondering when that would e-end up h-happening. It’s a c-common side effect of gaining a c-conscience,” Johan wrote off. “Tomorrow I’m free. Ray will p-pick you up. This will be better d-done here.”

Mercury let out a soft sigh of relief. “Thanks.”

“It’s nothin’,” Johan replied. “Now, er, if you don’t need a-anything else…?”

“Not at all.” Then, unable to resist, he added, “Enjoy your night.”

“I will,” he could hear Ray darkly say, equal parts teasing and hungry. Johan merely laughed, though, and the phone clicked off.

That could have gone so much worse, and frankly it turned out pretty well. Mercury patted himself on the back for a job well done and ignored that he had sat on his hands for almost two weeks out of nervousness. 

Then he slipped back into bed and slept until a bird crashed into his window. The bird was fine, by the way, just hopped up and shook it off. Thank you for your concern.

It was almost as if the bird was the morning’s way of waking him before the sunrise. How absolutely delightful. At least it gave him plenty of time to ruminate over what to do and say and how to act and dress for today’s appointment with Johan. 

Ray had made himself at home while everyone was still asleep, his feet kicked up on the table and a newspaper in hand. 

“Oh,” Mercury said, rather cleverly, when he spotted the other man. Ray lowered the paper to gaze at him with a cocked brow. After a moment of silence and allowing his brain to catch up, he asked, “Coffee?”

“Already had, but if you want, go ahead,” Ray replied, raising back up the paper. “I can wait.”

His stomach was in knots, and coffee was certainly not going to help that. “Nope. Let’s just go, if you’re ready.”

The other Henry set down the paper, and opened the glowing rectangular green door.

“After you.”

Yet again, realizing just how much power the shorter man wielded was a sobering reminder as to why he had to fix the wall in the dining room. Plastering over it was not enough, and the off white he had used dreadfully clashed with the paint. Ducking his head a bit even though the gate was over seven feet (more out of habit and a tad of shame), Mercury stepped through.

Johan’s home was… homely. 

He had been expecting something befitting the number of references to quantum mechanics. Something ripped straight out of a science fiction novel, considering that computer Johan had whipped out during their first meeting, and yet the calendar on the wall read 1944. What in Hell?

“What in Hell?” he murmured. 

Johan caught where his eyes were looking, the man going through papers on the table. 

“Surprised b-by the year? Most people are. The o-only a-advanced thing in this dimension is the use of atomic w-weaponry.” Johan’s nose wrinkled at the thought. “Well, th-that and therapy. And a few other things, but they’re n-not important right now.”

  
Mercury asked, without thinking, “So you have atomic warfare but not proper medical care?”

“Of course,” Ray gruffly remarked, his face darkening with a scowl. “This world is more into destruction than creation. Since Johan came around, well… it’s gotten a bit better, even though it cost a lot. Far too much, in my eyes.”

“I wanted to ask for your help,” he said, reiterating his purpose. Wisely, he elected not to further chew on his own foot and changed topics, if a bit abruptly. “Joey and Bertrum are acting weird.”

“Weird?” Johan questioned, setting down his cup of tea. Ray smirked, rolling his eyes, pushing out a chair for the taller Henry, sitting himself. Johan’s eyes scrutinized him, even as Ray’s seemed to read right through him. “What k-kind of weird?”

After he took the seat but before Mercury could reply, two young ladies (teenagers, honestly) ran in, laughing and giggling. Ray’s eyes lit up, and Johan’s face glowed, both having instant happiness boosts in seeing them.

“Papi, Dad, Marina and I are going to the creek,” the blonde one told them and smiled in the utmost charming way possible, clearly Ray’s daughter. The auburn, almost ginger, girl nodded. “Willy and Shawn already said it’s ok.”

“Will you take the younguns?” Ray asked. The two girls glanced at each other, blushing. “Mhm, I’ll take that as a ‘no’. Have fun, you two.”

“That’s the firestarter?” Mercury asked once the girls left. 

“The curly haired one, yes,” Ray answered, curt and blank. “Marina’s skill has become useful at times, here.” 

Was that a threat? Mercury had a feeling it was. It probably was. He swallowed thickly. He was not accustomed to fear. Causing it, certainly. It was not a pleasant sensation. 

“Right,” he rectified lamely, hastily turning back to his original line of conversation. “Joey and Bertrum are being… very forward.”

“Forward?” Ray lifted a brow in a tacit request for clarification. 

“Flirty.”

Ray then snorted, Johan gave him a small glare, and he raised his hands in a show of ‘I have not done anything, I am innocent’.

“And why the hell a-are you coming over t-to me?” Johan questioned, seeming slightly confused. “The only d-doctorate I have is i-in theoretical physics. A-and I never even finished h-high school. Ach, p-point is, I ain’t a couple’s therapist, nor a l-love doctor.”

“Well, excuse me for assuming you knew something, what with how you two were looking at each other,” Mercury said, voice and words sharpened a bit by his own frustration with himself. Johan and Ray only glanced at one another. Mercury sank back. “Sorry. You’re right. That doesn’t mean you can help me with this-”

“Thing i-is,” Johan remarked, passing Mercury some papers. “I can. I’ve been expectin’ this d-development, and gathered a l-list of viable therapists. They’re trained o-on things from kids, to Things c-coming, to relationships, and t-to magical n-nonsense.”

“This isn’t just a way to get me shipped off to the funny farm, right?” Mercury asked, narrowing his eyes at them. “Because there are easier ways to get rid of me.”

Johan’s eyes were tired.

“Sir, s-seriously, why w-would I try to do so, and here?” Johan asked, steepling his fingers into a pyramid. “My dimension is much m-more acknowledging of magical and e-extra dimensional crises. As long as y-you have proof - which y-you do, even though you’re unaware o-of it - you can have therapeutic a-assistance here. And heavens, no, not the a-asylums. Those are st-still as messed up as you’d think.”

“Oh.” He thought over what Johan had just explained, marveling a bit at how bass ackwards it was to be so advanced in the supernatural or rather inexplicable, and yet fail to recognize a non-white man as deserving of medical care, or to think of a mental asylum as the horror stories depicted them. He stifled a shudder. He would not murder Johan. Not… Not now. Not ever again. Was he technically Johan’s murderer, or since that universe did not happen, he was not?

Then, realizing he had only offered a stupid monosyllabic response, Mercury asked, “So, you’ve thought about me needing therapy?”

“A good d-deal of other multiverse beings c-come here for such,” Johan nodded. Ray snuck behind him and wrapped his arms over his shoulders. Johan took his hand with a smile, then continued. “Even some you know.”

“Who?” Mercury asked. The only people that both he and Johan knew were Bertrum and Pyrite, or at least he assumed. “Who else do you even speak with?”

Johan’s teeth flashed in a brief smile (did he see fangs?), “You d-do know sharing such information i-is unethical.”

He probably did see fangs, who was he kidding. Johan was a mystery and a slightly terrifying enigma all wrapped up in a soft exterior. “Fair enough,” he allowed with only minimal pouting. 

“We’ve scheduled you for tomorrow,” Ray shook out his shoulders, clearly trying to de-tense. “The doctor is a lovely fellow, they studied with me and we were partnered often in university.”

“I see…” Then, remembering his manners finally, Mercury said, “Thank you. I know you don’t owe me a thing, but thank you.”

Johan was about to reply, but Ray shut him up with a kiss. 

“You’ll be able to make it up by going to your appointments,” Ray told Mercury. He handed him an appointment card. “It’ll vibrate when it’s time for your appointment. Then just shake it, and it’ll open up a portal door.”

“Oh, good, you don’t have to play taxi again.” Mercury accepted the card, albeit with a bit of hesitancy. It seemed normal enough - a heavyweight paper embossed with the time and date and the name of his soon to be therapist. Quinn Harris. 

He slipped it into his pocket alongside his paper with Johan’s number, idly wondering if he should get rid of it, then immediately dismissed that thought. “And, uh, after, you know, our last meeting. How are you? Glad to see you’re still doing good.”

“We’re holding up,” Ray responded. Joey smiled at him, making him smile back. “Just fine.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Mercury said, soft and quiet, shocked himself at how genuinely he felt about that. He wanted Johan alive for his own peace of mind, but he also wanted Johan and Ray  _ happy _ . It was a weird sensation. Caring about people’s happiness.

They parted, and the next day’s therapy session went… well, it went well. Aside from his nerves, the therapist was, exactly as Ray said, a lovely person. They did not laugh at him when he brought up his terror of being devoured by otherworldly creatures, nor at his ink magic, or at anything he might have or expected them to laugh at. Things at home were going well, though Bertrum clearly  _ had _ talked to Pyrite about him, seeing that they glanced at him far more often and watched him, not out of wariness but out of observance. He, with his therapist’s advice, managed to fill out the letter for his son. 

Things were going good. Mercury found that being good not only  _ was _ good, it also felt great. The thrill of power he felt at making someone flinch paled in comparison to making Joey or Bertrum smile, or doing some small task that took a bit of weight off their shoulders and made their postures relax. He spoke excitedly with Quinn about this, explaining just how downright pleasant it was to walk into a room and not have Joey or Bertrum watch him like a barely house trained tiger. 

It felt better to love, than to be feared, and it felt so much better not to fear. He admitted, in faltering, unexpectedly thick sentences, that he could not stomach the thought of how it felt to be forced into an action that should have been reserved for lovemaking, and how glad he was that even at his worst he had not forced Joey to do that. (Quinn asked him briefly if he thought every time that Pyrite was fully on board from the start or if it was meant to diffuse his rage, and by God was it a gut punch to find himself unable to say confidently that it had always been fully consensual.) 

“I didn’t think I was like him,” Mercury admitted. Then, almost in a rush to explain himself, he added, “Derekson, he’s the one that did that to Johan. Johan is the one that woke up my conscience, or forcibly wrote one on me, who knows.”

“Johan imprinted some of his memories on you, you said?”

“Yeah. Yeah. My ribs still hurt sometimes.”

“Your ribs?”

He hummed, the sound a bit shrill as he started bouncing his leg. 

“Red, yellow, or green, Henry?”

What? His whole body shook with his leg. Quinn’s eyes were trained on his face though. 

Patiently, they repeated their question. “How are you feeling? Red, yellow, or green? We can take a breather.”

“Green.” He was fine. Totally fine. He sat on his hands to keep them from clenching into fists. “They just kept... Hitting him. Me? It felt like it lasted forever but also only seconds. But also seconds are hard to count when you can’t breathe because some  _ sicko _ decided to open up your chest and rip open your throat.” 

Maybe he was not fine. The bouncing redoubled. His jaw ached from either phantom pain or from the way he was grinding his teeth together. 

“Johan’s throat,” he clarified. “Not mine. Felt awfully real though. Tasted real.” 

“I would like you to pause for a minute, if you don’t mind.”

Mercury warned, “If I do I’m gonna puke.”

“There’s a bucket beside you. I don’t want to push you further than you’re comfortable with. In this incident alone you’ve mentioned several different traumas layered over each other. That’s a lot for anyone to deal with.”

Fair enough. Mercury grabbed the rubbish bin and, for the second time in his life, readied himself to hurl into a waste receptacle. “Yellow,” he whispered, surprising himself. 

Bile stung at the back of his throat, and so did the memory of something else. Someone else. “Re--”

The word was lost in a surge of vomit. Distantly, he heard Quinn offer to rub his shoulder and distantly he felt himself nod. The physical contact was nice. Controlled. Very deliberately kept far away from his neck or jaw and gentle, far more gentle than he expected. 

“They beat him and  _ he _ fucking face fucked him and he beat the shit out of him for no good reason and the machine tortured him for who the hell knows how long--”

“This is all Johan?” they seemed quite surprised and more than a little concerned. “Johan’s memories?”

“They did it to him and they kept trying to break him and,” he gasped for air and sobbed, “and he should be broken, right? How the hell is he not?”

Quinn was quiet. Their hand was warm, or maybe he was just cold. “I think,” they said, “that you greatly admire Johan, especially since now you have some sort of idea of some of the things he’s gone through.”

“No. Not admire. I can’t even imagine, okay? How is he not dead yet?” Mercury finally felt safe enough to return the bin to the floor. He did not feel strong enough to carry his own head high and instead dropped it into his hands. “I don’t even know what else fucked up fuckery he’s gone through, and yet here he is. Living life and loving his partner and being loved. Isn’t he afraid of being broken? Hurt again?”

“Are you afraid of that, Henry?” Quinn asked him. 

He shook his head. “Not so much. A little,” he admitted, because fine, he was scared. “But I’m like a bull in a china shop, here. I feel like I’m tap dancing on a minefield and yet I’m never the one that gets blown sky high. Well. Once. But I kind of deserved it.”

“Are you talking about the imprinting, or something else?”

Mercury blinked. “Something else. I was talking about how I bawled my eyes out and puked because I watched a person that was me, but isn't me, kill a man in front of his husband.”

“You never had that sort of reaction before?”

Henry balked at the question, opening and closing his mouth as he attempted to determine the words. Quinn, bless them, waited patiently for him. “Of course not,” he snapped finally, vehemently. Just because some alternate him was somehow worse than he was, that hardly made him automatically the same degree of awful. “And  _ I _ wouldn’t have. Not me. I wouldn’t do something so  _ senseless  _ and inhumane… I hope. I always… I always had a reason to do those things, a way to explain them.”

“I see. Before our next session I'd like you to go over the sheet I gave you on thinking patterns,” Quinn instructed. “Try to recognize the external actions of others and your emotional thoughts and reactions to it. I’d like to see if you can recognize a pattern between the two and how you feel you have been reacting instead and what you might change.”

Trying to determine whether that meant he passed or failed the question, because it sure as hell felt like a test, Henry mumbled an agreement.

“I’ll see you next week, Henry.”

Always next week. He felt like he was no closer than when he started. It still ached daily. 

“There’s a garden out back someone donated, if you’d want to clear your head there,” Quinn noticed his reluctance and grimace. “The folks that run it donate bulbs, too, if you’d want to plant some lavender at home.”

The idea appealed to him, and he slipped out. There were two men chatting happily, one with a brooklyn (or was that a hint of bostonian?) accent, the other clearly irish. The irishman was doing nothing to help, really, the other pruning the mass of lavender and lemongrass. The smell hit him, not like a train, but like a slow waltz.

Pleasant.

“Ah, hey, there’s a nook over there,” the man who was actually gardening told him, gesturing with his head to a swinging bench next to a bookshelf. “If ya wanna, that is. Ya look like you could use a breather.”

“Um, er, yeah,” Mercury confessed. The Irishman looked him over, deciding he was not a threat, preparing to continue his animated talk with the gardener. “Thank you.”

The time passed far too quickly, and he had only read a few chapters of the book he had picked up, which added to his frustration that had been muted. He took a few bulbs of lavender in an attempt to calm down, planning to plant them the next day. He also asked to borrow the book, and was given an ok. Even though things seemed fine, a discontent writhed under his skin. 

When he got home, Bertrum and Pyrite were already there.

Mercury felt a flash of frustration. He wanted to have five minutes completely alone, and then maybe he could untangle that mass of confusion squirming in his chest and tangling up in his brain. Five minutes alone, without anyone nearby, and he was sure he could get everything sorted out just fine. Those five minutes would be hard to find, because the building was only so large and somehow, without his noticing, proof of Bertrum and Joey’s existence had been stamped on every available inch. A book Joey was in the middle of reading left on the coffee table. A deck of cards left out for the next game Bertrum roped them into. The constant faint scent of ink, gasoline, coffee, and cologne that was not his own permeating all surfaces. A coffee mug, Joey’s mug, the one with the chip on the handle, on the counter and the man himself leaning against it not far away, idly going over a spreadsheet. Bertrum laughing at something, making a stupid joke. A pun. Oh,  _ hell _ , Joey’s awful sense of humor had infected Bertrum all over again. 

Everywhere felt too small, confined, closed in. He wanted to scream. He  _ wanted _ to grab the mug and throw it at Joey’s feet and tell Bertrum how stupid that joke was and anyone who laughed did so out of pity. He stood there, rooted to the spot, staring at Bertrum and Joey and boiling. He wanted to watch Pyrite jerk back, eyes wide, for Bertrum to fall silent and--

No, he did not want that. 

Henry forced himself to breathe deeply. Counted. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. His blood still boiled. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. He exhaled, slow, as much air as he could force out of his body, pushing until his lungs ached. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.

His hands were clenched at his sides, fists desperate to connect, to break. He stretched each finger out manually, forcing the digits straight and breathing through it the whole time. At some point he had shut his eyes. Opening them, he found both men staring at him. Apprehensive. Wary. Worried.

“Mr. Stein?” Bertrum cautiously asked. 

“Need a minute,” he ground the words out. “I’m going to… the garden.”

“I understand,” Bertrum said. Mercury just nodded and stalked out of the room, down the hall, and perhaps was a bit too forceful in opening and shutting the sliding door behind him. He could hardly bring himself to care at the moment.

The garden was not his, not really. Sure, he cared for the plants a bit and weeded and helped, but there was nothing that he had specifically chosen, planted, cared for from seed or bulb to sprout. The bulbs he had received rested in a small pot.

He had already read a book on planting before, and he set to doing so. He had six bulbs, and he carefully slotted each one into a cautiously made hole. One at a time. One at a time. Nice and easy. It was going well. Up until the fifth one.

His grip shifted, the bulb rolled almost out of his hands, and he hastily tried to catch it before it hit the ground. Stupid, in hindsight. Stupid, he realized, as the bulb felt-- wrong. It crumbled in his hands, cracked and snapped in his hand, the roots breaking all too easily.

He stared at the bulb. The  _ remains  _ of the bulb. That was growing increasingly blurry, his vision running together, colors smearing and running together like a painting or picture drenched in bleach. His eyes certainly stung like he had stuck his face into a vat of bleach. 

How in Hell did he manage to mess something up without even trying? Even when he tried not to mess up? Oh, this was a brutally straight forward metaphor for his entire life: even when he was trying to be tender he still managed to fuck up, and it was awful, disgusting, how he was so inclined to destroy that he could not, even for a minute, not fuck up? That would be delightful. Just five seconds of not breaking something, someone, that would be  _ peachy. _

Oh, Hell, he was crying. Of course he was crying, why would he not cry, this was already horribly pathetic. 

A near primal scream erupted from his throat. 

A few minutes. That was all Mercury had wanted. Just some time to be able to prove to himself that he could do something without destroying it in the process.

His body trembled and shook and he bent over, curling around the hollow inside him, the hole that seemed to fill endlessly with more emotions than any man should feel. An arm wrapped first around his shoulders, then another across his chest, or at least part of the way. A forehead pressed against his back and another hand eased the crushed bulb out of his grasp.

“Why?” he hiccoughed. “It’s not fair. It’s so hard.”

He felt like a child, whimpering and sobbing, and the man he was only not too long ago would have mocked either other man relentlessly for the same display of weakness. He sobbed again at the reminder of how far he still had to go, if ever he could say that he had even made positive progress. 

“Hush,” Joey whispered, not unkindly. “In time, darling. All in due time.”

“Rome was hardly built in a day,” Bertrum added, a hand running over his head, through his hair. It felt so nice. He fought the urge to lean into the touch for all of a second. Then he gave into the temptation and let Bertrum’s fingers tug at the strands, the sensation of fingers ghosting across his scalp soothing.

The tears slowly came less furiously, easing, and he could breathe again without the sharp sting in his throat. “Sorry,” he said after a moment. 

He sniffed, trying not to cry once more, then the sobs choked up his throat once more, “I’m sorry, for everything, I fucked up everything, and I always excused it as other people’s faults, and I  _ hurt _ you.”

Pyrite stayed silent. 

“You did,” Bertrum agreed.

Mercury fought against the stabbing pain that threatened to rip apart his throat. His heart. His everything. God, he was pathetic. Every time he started to regain some sense of control over himself, he said or did something, and he was right back to square one. 

Everyone could see it. 

It was pitiful.

“Come along,” Joey suggested, trying to help him up slightly. “You have earned some cocoa. The day has drawn on. Let’s retire for now.”

Apparently by retire, he meant settling on the couch with a mug of spiced hot chocolate in his hands and two men on either side of him. 

For hours, as long as it took for him to stop bawling his eyes out because he could not manage to plant a single bulb. (Not that it was  _ just _ the plant. It was more, something deeper, base, something that felt ingrained in him.)

Eventually, in his crying, he fell into the void of sleep, the two warm bodies against him as he slumped, exhausted. 

His head throbbed when he woke up, dehydration reminding him that he lost all his water through his tears. He might have woken up crying again if it were not for the warm press of bodies on either side of him. He could feel Bertrum, firm muscle even in sleep, his head resting on his shoulder, and he could feel Pyrite, delicate and bird-like bones and nestled into his side like he was burrowing for warmth. Both men had their arms around his waist. 

It was nice.

He could get used to waking up like this. On a bed, rather than a couch, preferably. 

But this was still over ten times more comfortable than his own lonely bed. 

Even if his arms were beginning to go slightly numb with two humans pinning them to the couch. Ah, well, he hardly needed those limbs, right? He could do without his arms for a time. It was worth it to see both men so open, caught in the trusting midst of sleep.

All said, Joey appeared to approach waking first, mumbling something incoherent and further burying himself against Henry’s side. 

The thin man’s head was just within his reach. Henry idly toyed a bit with a few strands of his hair that had gone haywire while they had slept. (He did not think about how Bertrum and Joey both had gray in their hair, and he had not even started to bald.) 

“Hnn. Henry,” Joey murmured, eyes blinking open slowly and meeting his gaze with a sleep dazed expression. “M’rn’.”

“You want to try that again in English?”

“Morn’.”

“Hmm.” Taking the chance, he said, “You must have slept so sofaking good.”

Caught off guard, because since when did Henry Stein make a pun willingly, Joey snorted, then choked, jerking away from Henry to slap his hand over his mouth. 

Henry reached out and eased his hand away. “Hey,” he whispered. “Hey, no, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I ever told you not to laugh.”

The other man’s distrust and disbelief struck like a physical blow, but he forced his own hurt feelings aside. 

“You have a great laugh. I should never have told you you didn’t. Please believe me when I say I’m sorry. I never should have said it. Please, I miss your laugh.”

Pyrite did not laugh, but he did not further stifle his amusement, an odd, quirked smile on his face, pulled too far to both sides like he was uncertain how to take this. Hesitant hope shone in his eyes though before Joey buried his face again in Henry’s chest.

“I know that I ruined the mood, for laughing and all, just now,” Mercury admitted, lifting the other’s head a bit to look at him beseechingly. “But please, next time you want to or feel like laughing, please don’t hold back. Please.”

“I’ll endeavor to remember that,” he mumbled, as if dazed. Bertrum woke up, stretching out his limbs as he yawned. Bertrum’s arm, rising quickly, smacked Mercury upside the head. The man cursed and sputtered, startled by the accidental blow. Pyrite jerked up, eyes wide to absorb the hullabaloo, and he snorted. 

Mercury pulled an affronted expression, which set Pyrite off trying to hold back his laughter because it was technically bad form to laugh at someone who just got hit by flesh and metal, but then Mercury  _ gasped _ , all exaggerated dismay and faked tears, and Pyrite lost it. 

“Bertrum hits Henry’s head like the dodgeball?” he questioned with massive eyes, and turned to Joey, pouting. “You laugh? That is it. I am packing my little rucksack and leaving to travel the world as a lone vagabond. I clearly cannot thrive here. Jail for Joey. Jail for Bertrum. For at least a thousand years. Each.”

At this point, Joey had turned a spectacular shade of crimson, though whether that was due to laughter or being unable to breathe was anyone’s guess. Just in case, Mercury did place on hand Joey’s back, yet the man still shook.

“Did we break him?” Bertrum asked, sotto voce.

Joey gasped between giggles, wheezing.

“Where are my kisses from Joey? Where are my snuggles and affection I so crave so dearly?” Mercury teased, and Bertrum’s face lit up. Without waiting for a response, Bertrum took hold of Joey and Henry’s heads and forced their faces closer together. 

At first, Henry held off, staring at the man mere centimeters away. Joey seemed to still be having trouble breathing. But then the thin man closed the distance and pressed a slightly desperate kiss to his lips. 

Mercury’s hands reached for Pyrite’s face, but Bertrum, insolent, smirking Bertrum, pressed his arms down to his sides, holding the wrists, his thumbs going over back and forth on the back of Henry’s hands.

Joey tasted like ozone and coffee, and Mercury could not get his fill. Too many years without the lulling taste left him a starving man, for the shared body warmth, the physical contact, and the taste and all. Henry was pinned, completely at the mercy of his two- whatever-they-were-nows- (boyfriends? Lovers? ‘Beneficiaries’? Prison guards? He did not give a damn) and he could not be more thrilled. Then, Joey grinned, pulling back so he was inches away from his face, then grabbed him by jaw and forced him within Bertrum’s reach. The amusement purveyor wasted no time in nipping the man’s lips, his jaw. That faintly sweet, smoky taste of overly sweetened tea and something almost mechanical and iron, it mingled with that of Joey, and Mercury held back a whine. He missed this. God, how he missed this. Why had he given this up?

“But please, Henry,” Joey purred, “I have a request of my own. Next time you want to or feel like  _ moaning _ , please don’t hold back.”

Honestly, that was all it took to get one out of him.

“Do that again,” Bertrum growled, voice caught somewhere deep in his chest as he taunted Joey. “I bet I can make him moan louder.”

“ _ Try  _ it.”

Mercury was even more certain this was how he died. Unable to defend himself, he sat back and let himself be smooched to death, obligingly moaning when the urge arose. 

Bertrum’s watch beeped, ruining the moment, and he loosened his grip on Mercury, shaking his head slightly to clear his mind. 

“We’re late to work?” Pyrite asked disappointedly, the questioning tone only because he did not want to leave.

“I’m afraid so,” Bertrum admitted as he checked the time. “Sadly, kisses do not pay the bills.”

“Damn timetables.” To Mercury, Joey promised, “Hardly as if work is endless. Rest well, Henry.”

As he climbed off him, hands trailing longer than strictly necessary to keep his balance, Joey placed one last kiss on his cheek. Bertrum followed shortly after, kissing the back of his hand as he released him completely. Mercury buried his burning face in his hands and squealed. 

He felt like a schoolboy all over again, waiting for class to end so he could indulge again in the exhilaration of physical touch.

Henry gave himself some time to calm down, and an impromptu face wash in the sink with as cold water as he could tolerate, but a restless energy had ignited and now left him pacing without the mental wherewithal to do something constructive about it. 

Since he had started therapy, he had brought it up tentatively to Bertrum and Pyrite, and they both were supportive of it (Pyrite even telling him that he went to the same place). Joey taught him to make doors to go back home, because he realized that he might have a card in, he had no idea how to get back. 

Still, that meant he could leave to a different world, if for a short time, at effectively his leisure. 

Mercury was not as skilled with the teleportation as Pyrite had become, but he was sure in time he would improve. He appeared in a bedroom. A not empty bedroom. 

With enough consideration and kindness not to blurt something crass about the tender touch and embrace Johan and Ray shared, Mercury backed out of the room and slipped shut the door. Apparently, he was not the only Henry Stein getting up to shenanigans today with his Joey. 

He could hear Ray shout, ‘goddamnit!’, Johan laughing. 

“Every time,” Ray grumbled, getting out of the room, nodding to Mercury. Johan followed, chuckling and pink, trying to placate his husband. “Every damn time I try to get this one to relax and have a bit of time with him. Every time.”

Patiently and politely, Mercury waited for both men to settle and be ready for a guest. 

“A-and how are you, today?” Johan asked with a dazzling smile.

“Just peachy,” Mercury answered. “I actually came to ask you that. Though I have a good idea now.”

“You have no idea how goddamn long it took me to get him out of his office,” Ray groaned. “Three hours.”

“And thirty f-four minutes,” Johan corrected.

“Yeah, that reminds me. How are you still alive?” 

“What?” both men asked at the same time, Ray blunt and Johan surprised.

Before he could incite a one man lynching mob, Mercury raised his hands placatingly. “You got to admit,” he said. “Johan’s track record is awful. He doesn’t take care of himself, the whole world seems hellbent on trying to finish off what his poor eating and sleeping habits start. I just.”

He paused, frowned and carefully lowered his hands back to his side.

“I just wonder how a man can survive as much as you have and still be like,” Mercury waved vaguely at Johan, trying to encapsulate all of the man’s eccentricity, strength and personality with the gesture. “That.”

Johan looked at his hands, fiddling with his ring. He seemed perturbed, deep in thought. “In all u-utter honestly, I should be d-dead, yes. How I’m not? Not a cl-clue. Well, maybe….”

He fell back into silence, a small smile on his lips. 

“Not to get on your case about word choice,” he protested. “That’s more J-- Pyrite’s wheelhouse than mine. But not ‘should’. It’s just really a stroke of luck that you’re not dead, not that you  _ should _ be dead.”

“I’m  _ not _ a lucky p-person,” Johan reminded him. “A great d-deal of spite kept me g-going. Fear. Hope. I h-had been cast aside by m-my family and w-wanted to build one anew. I was so thirsty in that d-desert, god, I coulda done a-anything for a cup of tea. So. Tea, love, spite. I d-don’t think that’s what y-you wanted to hear.”   
  


Mercury decidedly did not outright state his agreement, but he did frown in frustration, brow furrowing. “Tea, love and spite, huh? You realize any other man would be long dead. You say you’re not lucky? I agree. You’re  _ strong _ . You drag yourself back to the surface no matter how much gets piled up on top of you.”

“I-It’s not that m-much,” Johan protested. Ray rolled his eyes, and kissed his temple. “Could have b-been worse.”

He knew this was a low blow, and he hoped Ray would let him finish before killing him, but he said, “Ah, so because I  _ could  _ have murdered you but didn’t, what happened is okay. Because it could have been worse.”

“I mean, I c-could still be in the Ramirez e-estate.” Johan shrugged. “I could s-still be on the streets. I could’ve b-been murdered over a hundred million t-times for a hundred m-million reasons, b-but here I am. Could have been w-worse.”

“But could it be better? If you didn’t get put through pain you don’t deserve? That had no real reasoning behind it?”

“There was r-reasoning,” Johan lifted one shoulder, sighing. “Not by any logic I m-may have used or may use, but r-reasoning nonetheless. Money, p-power, a thrill. Everyone w-wants something, and s-some are willing to take it f-from others.”

“Shit indeed happens and cruel people exist,” he agreed, though he wanted to flinch as he recognized where he fit into those categories. “But you’re deserving of mercy and they can’t just, override that because they want something you’re in the way of. The fact you’re still here-- it’s a shock, okay, and it makes sense knowing you a little more.”

“Mhm.” Johan peered at him. “It’s been overridden c-constantly. And yet I am s-still alive, and doing quite w-well.”

Mercury lost his train of thought here because as much as he wanted to convince Johan that he deserved better than the hand life had dealt him, there was nothing he could say that Ray had not already said and was better equipped to say. He crossed his arms, knowing how petulantly he looked but unable to help himself, and glanced away from those piercing red eyes. 

“Fine,” he admitted. “But at least those people are dead, right?”

Johan looked at Ray. Ray looked back at him.

“They…  _ are _ dead?” Mercury asked with a growing sense of unease. “Right?”

“W-well, the m-machine has been built i-in a way to prevent it from t-turning sentient or evil,” Johan slowly stated. “Johnny hasn’t sh-shown his face since he was beaten b-by everyone in this studio. As f-for random people, I h-haven’t a clue. And Paul’s b-been sittin’ on plush in the Ramirez estate.”

“He’s  _ what _ .” There was a shrill tone in his voice, his eyes going wider than they already were. “There’s no way. No. What the hell is he doing?”

“Sucking up every dollar that should be Johan’s,” Ray muttered, getting up to get himself some soda or a juicebox (clearly for the kids, if Johan’s look said anything [he picked the soda]). “Possibly he could live for another, what, thirty, forty years?”

Abruptly, he felt like his knees had turned to water, every ounce of his weight falling through his core to the floor, even though he was still sitting on their couch. His heart fluttered somewhere in his throat, choking any air that he tried to drag into his suddenly too shallow lungs. 

“No,” he squeaked. His voice sounded off in his ears. “Not only is he  _ alive _ but he’s living a comfortable life while you scramble and claw for every inch? He- He doesn’t deserve that! None of that!”

He focused on his breathing instead, trying to breathe around his racing heartbeat but it only seemed to grow stronger. 

“You’re not upset over that?  _ Concerned _ ? Ray, you can’t be pleased by this.”

“I’m not, but…” he looked at Johan.

“I don’t g-give half a worm’s ass about that m-man,” Johan filled in. It was the roughest language Mercury had ever heard the soft spoken man use. “I w-wouldn’t go to his funeral t-to spit on his grave. Breathing or n-not, he’s dead to me.”

“Dead to you or not, only actual dead men aren’t threats,” Mercury pointed out, but it was a definite comfort to find Johan did have something other than endless patience for those who hurt him. 

“If he  _ dares _ show his face,” Ray began darkly, then eased at the grimace on Johan’s own face. “You can make a guess as to what I’d do.”

“I have a good imagination.”

Mercury was not sure exactly what he had hoped to get out of the meeting, some sort of reassurance perhaps, but he returned home with a significantly lighter pep to his step.

Moderately late. A part of him reminded him that he missed dinner, but his stomach was too busy turning flip flops to care, so instead of the kitchen, he went to the hall, and saw a letter on the small stand with his name scrawled on the address.

It had been a while since he had gotten mail and had his heart leap immediately into his throat, but seeing Frederick Stein, his eldest son’s name, on the return address launched his heart into overdrive. Was it possible to choke to death on your own heart? He sure as Hell felt about to. Henry shut his eyes and breathed through his nose. 

After wasting a few more seconds trying to gather up courage he would never have enough of, Henry snatched up the letter and, with almost robotic motions, as if his limbs were not his own, opened the envelope.

It opened with “Henry”, rather than any number of choice expletives that could have exquisitely filled that spot, so he had to assume this was a rather good start.

He sat down heavily in the nearest chair and began to read.

Frederick was hurt, still, deeply, and he had known that and knew a simple letter would not touch all those years of failed parenting, but now: the door was open for discussion; Fred cautiously allowed him to offer his apologies, the chance to prove that he was a different man than when he raised him. There was a hint of curiosity in the return, questioning what prompted this change of heart.

“You wouldn’t believe it,” Mercury muttered, but with a wry smile. He could produce Johan as proof, and honestly, the tale was so far fetched that it had to be true. Even he had a hard time fully wrapping his mind around everything that had happened, even before Johan got involved. Magic made things tricky to start with, and Johan’s peculiar sense of justice and responsibility only compounded matters.

Feeling unexpectedly lighter, as if ready to brave the idea of writing another letter despite the difficulty of the first attempt, he retired to his room.

And found Joey and Bertrum on his bed. 

At first he assumed he had somehow managed to get turned around and enter the wrong bedroom, and exited quickly with a blush to leave to his own, spinning around then realizing he was already at the end of the hall, and it was no mistake (on his end at least), that was his bed, his sheets, his Bertrum and Joey on top.

“You’ve confused the poor man,” Bertrum whispered to Joey. 

“How was I to know he was so easily turned about?” Joey whispered back. “Hold a moment. Henry!”

He stood in the door, shifting from foot to foot, though probably only because he was not entirely sure what else to do. “Right,” he stammered, “but what’s even, what are you two doing?”

“We have already slept together,” Joey remarked, getting up and practically waltzing over with a smirk that betrayed how aware he was of the innuendo and how much he delighted in the steady creep of red across Henry’s cheeks. Then, expression softening, Joey reached out for him. “Come along. Share the bed?”

Henry allowed himself to be pulled back into the room and onto the bed, wedged between the other two. He felt a bit like a pillow, manipulated and adjusted for the utmost comfort of the other men, not that he minded at all. Joey tucked under one arm, all sharp edges and still too much bone, his head on his chest, Bertrum  _ on  _ his other (he preemptively said goodbye to all feeling in that arm). It still felt good though.

Conversation started a little awkwardly, Henry’s brain momentarily shutting down everytime he looked down to meet their eyes respectively when they spoke, breathing with a hitch each time.

“You’ve improved dramatically,” Joey praised. “Tonight’s dinner paled in comparison to yours.”

“There are leftovers still,” Bertrum added. “Warm it in the oven, and  _ not  _ the microwave.”

He knew better. He knew, but also he was well aware of his impatience at times. Rolling his eyes, he quipped, “Sure, microwave for five minutes, got you.” 

“With tinfoil for extra measure.”

Bertrum groaned, “Delightful, you’ve joined forces.”

“I’m sure you’ll keep the place from burning down,” Henry reassured him. Then, in a burst of boldness, he kissed the top of his head. The man, though it was mitigated by the short length, had a bit of perpetual hat head. “We need you around as our tough firefighting park maker.”

“Speaking of which,” Bertrum hesitantly began. Both Pyrite and Henry turned to look at him. “Afraid I’ll have to go out of town for the weekend. Business matters.”

“I see,” Henry said, a bit dumbly. If only for a moment, he had forgotten the outside world existed. Between the near unrestricted interdimensional travel and the comforting press of bodies against his, the world had narrowed to this one building, and comfortably at that. 

“No fires, no debauched parties, no improvised explosives,” Joey rattled off, a common reprise. “Whyever would we monopolize the fun of demolition and not allow you to share in?”

Joey yawned then, his jaw audibly snapping and popping. In turn, Bertrum and Henry felt the same need for sleep bearing down on their eyelids. 

“Sleep well, my dear hearts,” Bertrum ordered, punctuating the direction by clinging tighter to Henry. 

Groggy already, Joey mumbled into Mercury’s chest, “Travel safely, kitten.”

Henry did not want to sleep just yet. Being awake, conscious of every breath, motion and sound, was a far more appealing thought than slumbering, unaware and taking for granted the very same sensations, but eventually, time, heavy exhaustion and blissful comfort stole him away into dreams.


	6. Make Out, Make Up, Break Up

Somehow, knowing that Bertrum would not be coming home that night, made the house feel even emptier than it normally. Henry filled the hours, with some difficulty, hoping that at least, Joey would come home early. Unfortunately, the phone rang, he snatching it up, hearing Pyrite apologize profusely that he would be held up at work. He assured him that it was fine. It  _ was _ fine, after all, just… lonely.

Incredibly lonely, he amended later, as he sat at the dinner table by himself, unable to bring himself to bother reheating the meal, even via the microwave.

Wow, he truly was pathetic. He could not even call Johan or Ray, something that had become a bit of a passtime.

Like a dog excited by his master’s return, when he heard Pyrite come through the front door, he all but leaped to his feet and rushed to greet him. 

His excitement died a little, seeing Joey’s haggard expression, even though the man tried to hide it with a smile and manic gestures. His hands were shaking. 

“I can prepare dinner quickly,” Henry suggested, trying to help. He wanted to grab Joey and force him to sit down, to stop trying so hard and overworking himself, but the man just smiled wider and waved off the comment. “Please, Joey, you don’t look so good. How about I’ll warm you up some soup and you can have it in bed?”

“Just drop the matter,” Pyrite snarled, then blanched. Mercury stepped back, surprised by the heavy shift in behaviour. “It’s no matter. I will be fine.”

“I’m sure you’ll make yourself seem okay,” he agreed, once again back to feeling out of his depth. “I won’t push you. Please just try to take care of yourself and sleep. I’ll put the soup in a thermos so that if you want it later it’ll still be warm.”

It felt like the exact opposite of what he was meant to do, like he was turning his back on him as he backed off to retreat to the kitchen, but he also desperately wanted Pyrite to relax. And that, evidently, would not happen if Mercury were to force his presence on him. 

As he had promised, he warmed some of the soup on the stovetop and transferred it into another container to keep warm. They had been doing so well, too. Was this just momentary, or had the positive progress been momentary? Henry was too ignorant when it came to fixing such things to know.

There were not many more hours to the rest of the night, though they continued to drag with Henry trying his best to keep out of sight and out of mind. When he retired to his bedroom, the one that the night before had been full of life and warmth, it felt cold. The bed felt hard and cheap (which it had been) and there was not a comfortable position to be had.

A little before 1AM, he froze, stopped his tossing and turning, when he heard a soft whimper. His and Joey’s bedrooms were close enough that he could hear some things- laughter and chatter some nights, other nights he would not dream of thinking about, but he had not heard abject fear before now. Joey sounded terrified, his whine catching and keening, like a cornered animal. 

Did he risk it? What if his presence only worsened the situation?

Joey sobbed then, and yes. Yes he did risk it. Henry hurried to the man’s bedroom and let himself in.

The room was dark, curtains drawn shut to ward off even the starlight, but there was a Joey shaped lump on the bed.

“No,” Joey whined, fighting in the shadows with his sheets and the nightmare.

Were you meant to wake someone from a nightmare or allow it to run its course? Joey whimpered again. Henry made the executive decision. Striding forward far more confidently than he felt, he crossed the gap from the doorway to the bed and reached out for Joey’s shoulder.

The contact felt like a rubber band snapping in his skull.

The stench of melting wax, spilled ichor and too much dust forced his eyes to open despite the disorientation. The room was lighter, candlelight casting long shadows on the walls, across the faces of everyone in the room. And the half formed approximation of Norman’s countenance. 

He, but not him (how could there be two of him in the same place?) stood next to Pyrite, Joey’s body denoting relief, his own posture reeking of bitter betrayal. 

“No!” Mercury yelled at the punch he saw coming, that he, Henry, readied so long in advance. Henry turned to Mercury, startled, and snarled. Joey stared at him as well with massive eyes, shocked to see the second. “Let him go, stop it!”

“You want him so bad?” Henry growled, his originally falsely genial smile twisting into the unmasked brute. Mercury stepped back, then focused on Pyrite. On his fear, on the need to stop that terror. Henry hauled up Joey and threw him at Mercury. His fragile, too fragile form, (how in Hell had he been so proud of reducing him so small?), crashed onto Mercury, as he tried to keep the man from hitting the ground as well, shielding him in his arms. “Then take him, and  _ die  _ with him!”

The air, already crackling with too much magic and Their influence, sparked once more as Henry raised his hand up, ink coiling around his fingers.

“I won’t let him ruin my life,” Henry said, a snarl on his face. “This is  _ his mess.  _ And you  _ know _ it.” 

Henry brought the full force of his rage and the ink crashing down. Mercury spun his back into the blow, bracing against the wall, Joey pinned between him and the wood, Mercury keeping Joey defended from the brunt of the flood. He knew intimately what would happen if it hit Joey unimpeded.

He felt the bruising forming almost immediately, but only bruises, only some measure of breathlessness as the force drove the air from his lungs, Pyrites hands clinging to his chest, his shirt tearing slightly from the weighty thunder. 

“We need,” he managed to get out from between grit teeth. “To wake… up….”

“Oh, you aren’t entertained?” Joey snapped, voice tight and shrill with fear. “What a lovely diversion--” 

He yelped as one of Them brushed too close for comfort. He clung tighter to Mercury, his whole body trembling.

“Please, God, Henry,  _ please _ . Please just--”

Wood splintered and shattered, a door bursting apart and the tide of ink stopping, dropping immediately in sheets to the floor. Arms reached through the liquid, feeding off the lingering magic within, and They climbed. Unseen, but felt, hands encircled their legs, hips, backs and shoulders and necks.

“No! No, I don’t-- please, no!”

Mercury held on tighter to Pyrite, even as the thin, no,  _ emaciated  _ man (and it was his fault, his fault) began to hyperventilate and struggle, less and less consciously aware of Mercury’s touch and simply needing to escape. 

“Not again, please  _ no _ ! I don’t  _ want _ \--”

Joey’s voice disappeared, syllables running together, swallowed up and choked by the surge of ink that rose up his throat and poured out of his mouth.

The last time this had happened, or as similar as the nature of a dream allowed, Mercury had already been long gone, standing out in the fresh air and sunlight and  _ mocking _ Joey and patting himself on the back for his quick thinking. Despite his hold on Joey, the man slowly slid to the floor, dead weight in his arms, a convulsion and then slid down. 

Joey had been turned into ink, he remembered abruptly. Both before, partially, and after, completely. He had not thought about what the process looked like. Or how it would have felt. 

“Joey?”

Pyrite threw his head back and  _ wailed _ , jaw splitting open, face splitting, tearing, as ink and blood poured down his face, too much to have just been a splatter from earlier. His mouth forcibly began to close, forcing back his scream into his throat, and his lips peeled back to expose grinning, grinning teeth. It was so very, very wrong.

He stared down at what had been Joey, what had been Pyrite, and was now, maybe, Bendy, if he squinted and tried to ignore the horrible sense of  _ wrong wrong wrong _ that arose every second he spent studying him, it,  _ him _ . It was still his Joey.

A dripping claw reached up for his face and he shut his eyes and--

And there was nothing. 

No cold fingers brushing wetly across his cheek. No twisted, misshapen body in his grasp. No stench of rot and ink and whiff of ozone. Hesitant, terrified of what he would see, he cracked his eyes open and glanced about. 

He was back in the hallway, the light from the glassdoor outside streaming in behind him.

“Joey?” he called softly, shakily. 

There was a hesitant response, “Over… over here.”

Pyrite sat on the couch, shivering a bit. He rubbed at his arms, glancing about. His book, handbound, had seen what looked like at least a solid month of constant use, spine cracked, and was joined by two other similarly worn journals next to him on the cushion. 

“There you are,” Henry remarked, smiling just a bit. Mercury, still in the kitchen doorway, found himself impaled to the ground, unable to move. Henry flashed him a smile, and entered the living room. “You doing alright, doll?”

  
“Of course,” Pyrite said, smile too wide, too fake, his gaze dark and cautious and ringed by too many days of sleeplessness. “Why would I not be alright? Everything is fine. All nor--”

Henry smiled back at him, a cold glint. “Joey,” he said, sharp like reprimanding a dog that had tried to get into the trash. A thousand more horrible words waited in the wings of that grin. “I asked a simple question. If I wanted a speech, I’d have asked for it.”

Pyrite flinched, shutting his mouth and his shoulders curling like he wanted to hide in them.

“Let’s discuss your progress on fixing your mess,” Henry remarked, folding his arms as he looked down at the man. “You’ve only had, hm, thirty whole years to make sure I don’t suffer for your mistakes.”

Mercury, in the kitchen, tried to scream out, tried to stop this tirade of backsliding, this agonizing performance that caused only suffering.

Henry glanced back, catching sight of him, and smirked knowingly. His fingers twitching ever so slightly, Mercury found himself sliding along the floor, just so that Pyrite would be in his vision, but he was out of sight of the small man. It burned.

“I haven’t-- There’s been a minor set back,” Pyrite said placatingly. Henry’s brow raised, and he levered himself off from the doorpost, loping over like a predator. Mercury shook in desperation to stop this imposter. Joey inched away, smiling far too wide. “It really is minor! I promise, Henry! It is!”

“You’re nothing but a liar, Joey,” Henry said, voice soft and gentle, everything his hand was not as it snapped across Pyrite’s face. Mercury launched forwards half an inch before the invisible restraints cinched tighter around him once more. “Why aren’t you trying harder?”

“I am!” Pyrite did not scramble away, like Mercury begged him to in his mind. He only trembled, fighting the urge to press a hand to his cheek. The other lifted in mollification. “Henry,  _ please _ !”

“How hard are you working right now?” he demanded, gesturing to Pyrite, a lazy eye going over the three manuscripts. “You could have at least tried to open one of the books and  _ pretended _ . You used to be able to lie so well.”

Mercury wanted to rip Henry’s throat out with his teeth. Joey was clearly exhausted, worn out and drained, hollowed out cheeks and wide, scared eyes. Henry, on the other hand, looked fresh as a daisy. A daisy filled with venom that deserved to be ripped out of the garden by the roots and mulched. Maybe Mercury was gardening too much, but he could see Henry was a dandelion - pretty and golden appearance, weed tendrils sapping the good from those surrounding, leaving the other flowers in the garden to wither. 

Joey whimpered, “I’m exhausted, Henry, please.”

“You’ll be exhausted when I’m through with you,” Henry grinned, tilting his head. Mercury tried to scream, to lash out an escape, but to no avail. Joey, however, did not lash out. Mercury watched, a growing pit of disgust, as a look of tentative relief burst across his face and he reached out for Henry. Henry only smirked. “Really now?”

“You know me,” Joey chuckled, the sound ugly. His voice was rough, mockingly sensual, angled lower to hide the tears choking him. “I have my uses. I-- I can be useful in other ways than-- than just research. I can alleviate your stress.  _ Please _ allow me the pleasure.”

Mercury wanted to hug the man, apologizing for everything, pleading that he never talked about himself that way again. He wanted to assure him that he  _ was _ useful, and did not need to be, that he was a person deserving to rest and feel safe. 

Not Henry. Henry, who laughed and let Joey hug him around the neck, his own hands trailing along his side, disappearing into too baggy clothing, not gently pulling Joey closer, but yanking him up, a muffled noise of pain escaping him.

Mercury threw himself against the invisible force again and again. Henry bit harshly down on Joey’s lip, drawing blood and a warning, one Mercury himself remembered making to Ray, and he stopped short.

Only a few minutes, but far too long, he had to watch, watch as this man pinned Pyrite to the couch, his knees on both sides of him, a hand holding both his wrists above his head. He had to watch until a pressure he had not been aware of loosened around his own wrists and waist. Testing his range of motion, he barely felt resistance as he lifted his hand. He stole his chance, slowly creeping into the room, keeping his eyes locked on Pyrite, his only thought to save him. 

He wanted to smack the man off of him. Grab him by the back of his shirt and pull him away. Anything to rescue Pyrite. To rescue his Joey,  _ his _ Joey, that he loved, by god he loved him. 

Mercury knew he had to be smart about it. Pyrite’s whimpers that used to send a thrill through him grew abhorrent. 

Oh how he wanted to rush this, but that would probably only result in Henry injuring Pyrite. 

If he risked trying to manipulate the ink during this odd mixture of dreamscape and his conscious mind, would he hurt Joey? Possibly. It would have to be through mundane means. At least the benefit there was that he could rid himself from some of the seething rage he felt hearing Henry play-act the gentleman now, even as Mercury’s hand wrapped around the lamp.

“Look at you,” Henry whispered. His words were honeyed poison dripping into Joey’s ear. “Beautiful. We didn’t need all that nastiness before. You should have just played along from the start. Joey, Joey, Joey, always so stubborn. Give up.”

Mercury felt his heart turn cold with those two final words, and he had to swallow repeatedly to keep his grip on the lamp, hoisting it into his hand, cautiously aiming.

Henry shifted his hips obscenely. “Isn’t it  _ so  _ much more enjoyable when you do?”

The lamp cracked against Henry’s head, and he tumbled away from Joey, cursing and sputtering, rubbing his throbbing head. 

Joey’s eyes flew open, and he flinched back, because cursing and quick movements never ended in his experience. “Henry?”

Then his eyes landed on Mercury, and his shoulders fell, eyes widening, lips twitching into a genuine smile, and Mercury, for once,  _ for once _ , felt like he had done something truly good. “Henry!”

“I’m here,” he promised, gathering his too light weight up into his arms, bearing him away to his own room quickly, closing and locking the door in case the  _ other _ him would bother getting up. Turning back to the bed gave them both a strange feeling of whiplash. Joey’s sleeping form lay upon the mattress, Mercury slumped beside him, hand on his shoulder. “Alright, alright, Joey, I have an idea of what to do.”

Joey appeared a bit disoriented, rather than his usual curiosity when faced with the unknown, by staring at himself, but did not even offer a token protest as Mercury lowered him back inside his own body, his figure slipping like a ghost inside his flesh.

“I’ll be there,” Mercury promised, and caught the smallest of smiles on Joey’s face. He quickly entered his own body, the feeling being generally warm, and his eyes snapped open. Pyrite, on the other hand, seemed groggy and tired. Mercury brushed his hair back out of his clammy face. “I’m here. If there’s anything I can do for you, let me know.”

Pyrite opened his mouth, then shut it when his voice cracked on the first sound. After another false start, he whispered, “Please leave.”

Mercury had hoped for a different response, but it was not unexpected. He nodded to show his acceptance, hoping his disappointment would not show. Not that he was disappointed in Pyrite, no, more that he could not prove himself any better. This, what he had just been privy to, was not something that would dissipate in an instant, no pretty words, or gesture grand or small.

“Okay,” he agreed simply. Moving slowly, every movement as carefully choreographed as the time he had removed Pyrite’s jacket from his shoulders, Mercury stood and backed out of the room, hands exactly where Pyrite could see them and know were ink free the whole time.

Some part of him held out hope, right up until the minute he stepped into the hallway, that Joey would call out to him and ask for him to return. The shaky, shuddering exhale Pyrite released once Mercury was out of eyesight killed that hope in the cradle. 

His own head was reeling still as he sat back down on his bed.

He fucked up.

Mercury held no illusions that he had wronged Pyrite, but he had not yet fully grasped how truly horrific his actions had been, not until it was shoved in his face.

Twice now.

But this time, hell, he could not tell if it was better or worse. He slumped over on his side, not bothering to pick up his legs.

A soft knock at the doorway startled him out of his pity party. “Joey!” He bolted upright out of habit. 

“Henry,” Joey said, tone carefully even and neutral. It made the taller man swallow, worried. Visibly drawing in a steadying breath, he added, “I believe we have an overdue conversation.”

“Oh. Okay, yeah. We do,” Henry agreed slowly, glancing about his rather bare bones room. “Want to sit? I can move to the chair and you can be on the bed, if that’s comfortable.” 

Joey did so surreptitiously, but he eyed the locations of the chair and bed in relation to the doorway, gauging his escape route, before he nodded. “I appreciate the concession,” he murmured. “Thank you.”

Mercury just swallowed again and switched positions, dragging the chair into a better position while Joey sat himself on the bed. He took the chance to study him.

Joey looked less exhausted, and he was in no way inkified. Fully human. He was not as thin as he was in either of the dream sequences, but watching him wrap his hands about his own wrist, fingers overlapping, in an attempt to stifle either the old ache of a broken bone or to overwhelm the more recent memory of the dream, Mercury still felt sick. 

“I am uncertain as to what caused the mental connection,” Pyrite started. “Likely some way related to the ink. I don’t know. Nor do I particularly care to understand it, except to know what preventative measures to take.”

“Okay?” This had not been the direction he expected. 

“What you witnessed--” Color began to drain from his features. “What you witnessed was common. I do not often have you come bursting in and rescuing me from myself, however. Thank you for the attempt. The memories of the ritual are…” He swallowed. “You must have questions.”

“You don’t have to tell me anything you’re not comfortable with,” Mercury assured him. The man’s look of confusion, however brief, hurt. He forced his own reaction aside. This was not the time to get caught up in himself. “I mean it. You set the limits here.”

“Oh.” Pyrite explained, haltingly, as if searching blindly for a way forward, “I don’t typically dream about the ritual in  _ full _ . Not always the spine snapping and the face punching. Just the transformation and what followed directly after. I… I also don’t typically dream about, ah, the second one. With….”

“The one where I acted like I did before?” Henry hazarded a guess. Joey just nodded, shoulders drooping and wiping his eye with the heel of his hand. 

“That one. Yeah.”

“Do you have any ideas of where it could have come from?” god, he was starting to sound like Quinn. But was that really a bad thing? “Are… are you afraid of that happening?”

Joey’s gaze flicked between his position on the bed, to the distance between them, and the door. Mercury’s heart panged. “Yeah,” he admitted softly.

It was quiet for a moment. Mercury swallowed, and then exhaled, quietly.

“I am too,” he confessed, then got down to his knees to look up at Pyrite, clasped his hands together, and promised; “But it won’t happen. Never. I’d give away my arm and leg before I would let myself act like that again. I’m so sorry.”

“I’ll try to remember that,” he croaked, finding words all the more difficult with too many emotions clogging his throat. Studying Mercury’s face carefully, he searched for any sign of duplicity and, finding none, continued, “You recent behaviour didn’t inspire tonight’s night-- dream. You, ah, recall that I had to stay later at work?”

“Yes?” Henry tried to determine where this non sequitur came from. 

“It’s childish,” Joey spat. “Something I should have simply acknowledged the criticism and moved on, and yet… here we are.”

Or perhaps it was not a non sequitur at all. Anger began to boil in his chest. Someone had-- what was the word Quinn used? Triggered? Someone had triggered his Joey. 

“ _ I _ made the mistake,” Joey tried to laugh, only to fall far short, instead let out a sharp, strangled bark of bitterness. The more he spoke, the faster the words came. “ _ I _ fucked up. I should have- I should have done better, checked my work more thoroughly. Being tired is no excuse, I don’t work nearly hard enough to warrant such reasoning. I’m too stupid to handle basic math, of course I fucked it up, and of course I have to stay behind off the clock and clean up my mistakes and fix them, and when he came in and asked to discuss my progress on fixing my mess, he said I wasn’t trying hard enough to please him.”

“Oh God,” Mercury whispered. His rage chilled, turning to something icy and hateful. He could recognize his own words from years (months) ago in the speech and those from the dream. “Your boss is a  _ liar _ . And a cheat. You didn’t deserve that. You  _ don’t _ deserve that. I’m going to call this son of a bitch and tell him that you’re not coming in again.”

“And we will survive off what income?” Joey demanded. “Bertrum’s income can only stretch to a certain extent. We need the money, and I’m well accustomed to having my flaws thrown in my face. I won’t permit it to interrupt yours or Bertrum’s nights.”

The newspaper that Ray had been reading surged to his memory. 

“I’ll be right back, I’m just gonna grab something,” Mercury told him, getting up from the floor. Swiftly, he returned with the paper, and opened it into the job’s section, scanning the page. “Look right here, Joey.”

Pyrite peered onto where Mercury was pointing. 

“An opening in animation?” Unable to keep his eagerness entirely out of his voice, he continued, “I suppose that must amuse you, but I would rather not fail so miserably again.”

“You were an amazing animator,” Mercury assured him. “You  _ are _ an amazing animator. You won’t fail. They’ll love you.”

“We barely managed our deadlines,” he protested, but he wanted to believe Mercury, that much was apparent in the way he almost reached out for the paper. “This could turn out horribly.”

“You don’t have to suffer through a job. You can take the risk to be happy. You can be happy. We’re going to be okay. I can help you, too. But I know you can handle it. You’re tough. You’re good, no, you’re  _ amazing _ . This would be better than bashing your head against a wall.”

Joey swallowed thickly and laid his hand on Henry’s. His fingers were cold as he pushed aside the paper. “I suppose,” he mumbled, glancing up at him, “I may believe you.”

Before Mercury could respond properly, Joey grabbed him by the collar and dragged their faces together, inhaling quickly before kissing him. 

The newspaper dropped from his nerveless fingers and they took up residence in Joey’s hair, carding through the strands. Pyrite pulled away for a moment, edging to be further back on the bed. With his hands on both sides of Henry’s face, keeping him bent forward and easy to off-balance, and off-balance him he did. He pulled Mercury back, physically not strong enough to bodily tug him over him, but Mercury followed direction well, allowing Pyrite to take the lead on this front. 

In short order, Pyrite had Mercury straddling him, knees beside either hip, and it was familiar. 

Too familiar. 

“Are you sure?” Mercury asked, pushing back just enough to break the kiss. 

“Fuck me,” Joey snarled and rolled his hips.

Mercury breathed carefully, shutting his eyes at the sensation, and was caught unprepared when Pyrite caught his lower lip between his teeth. Blood and pain popped his eyes open.

“Come along now. Go on and break me,” he hissed, screwing his eyes shut to avoid Mercury’s startled gaze. “You already shattered my pelvis once. Hush up and--”

This was not him. “Joey--” 

Pyrite was shaking like a leaf. Every muscle tighter than a bowstring, tendons popping in his neck and jaw, chest rising and falling at a frantic pace. He did not know the man underneath him, except to know how terrified he was and how wrong this whole situation was.

“Please,” he whimpered. Tears rolled down his cheeks despite his efforts to hold them back. “Please, wait, please stop, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please don’t.” 

“I won’t, I won’t,” Mercury assured him, getting off of him immediately. “Can I hold you? Or touch your arms? Is there anything I can do?”

As soon as his weight was off him, Pyrite curled up and pressed his back against the headboard. “You should be upset, frustrated,” Joey whispered. Mercury’s hand hovered over his pulsing back, the smaller man’s breathing hitching and jittery. “I am  _ terrified _ of returning to the previous status quo, but at least then you were  _ predictable  _ enough. I could appease you sometimes. Sometimes not. You would have kept going before. Thank you for stopping, but this man feels like a stranger in so many ways.” 

Henry bit his lip, tasting his own blood. 

“I’m sorry. I… maybe we could come to know each other again,” Mercury thought out his next words cautiously, even though his heart ached and his eyes stung. “But… for your sake, maybe… maybe we shouldn’t, you know. See each other until then.”

“I’m sorry,” Pyrite said miserably. “Please be patient. I’ll reaccustom to this provided you  _ remain _ this way.”

“I already promised you an arm and a leg if I ever cross any of those lines, ever,” he reminded him gently. “I won’t ever act like that again. And I’ll prove it everyday.”

He nodded, wordless, then shifted, making space beside him on the bed. 

“You want to sleep here tonight? With me?”

“Please.”

Mercury settled in carefully, only moving when Pyrite relaxed his posture, until they were laying side by side once more, Pyrite’s smaller frame pressed against his back and arms draped over his shoulders.

His chest ached as he listened to him gradually slip under the cover of unconsciousness, breathing finally evening off and deepening to something more at ease.


	7. Never Have I Ever

Bertrum had expected a little property damage when he returned home. (And, wow, his head still spun when he paused to consider that two people who had had their hands in the single biggest tragedy of his life had somehow become synonymous with home and comfort.) Surprisingly, there were no broken plates, mysteriously replaced chairs, cracked mugs, or hastily applied patches on any wall.

All things considered, he was proud of his loves. 

His smile fell off his face when he walked in, watching a slow motion trainwreck in the foyer, or rather, stop motion, everything taut and impossibly thick. 

Joey looked like a wire ready to snap, tugging at his collar, leaned against the nearest table in a feigned approximation of comfort. (They still needed to discuss forcing him to agree to some sort of mobility aid, not today, but before they heard a thud from another room and found him on the floor yet again.) Henry looked like he had witnessed half a dozen puppies be ripped from their mothers. Like _he_ had taken those pups away, and threw them into a sack into the river for good measure. There was only so much space, but they stood by either wall, the whole room between them and a sudden invisible, yet no less apparent, gulf.

“What happened?” Bertrum asked, shocked. “What did you two do while I was out?”

Mercury and Pyrite shared an odd glance, Henry opening his mouth only to defer to Joey with a nod. “There was an inconsequential incident,” Joey said, all carefully chosen words and moderated levity. His thumbs were tucked into his waistband. “Nothing so terrible as to cause concern. A new orientation of understanding. A simple miscommunication that will ease in time. No need for any further action, and certainly none now.”

Mercury’s leg bounced, faster and faster as Joey spoke. 

“Come along and regale us with tales of your coworkers’ folly and idiocy,” Joey suggested as he offered a sweeping gesture toward the home proper. “We can discuss other matters at other times.”

“Did you know,” Mercury spoke up, “that Joey’s boss calls him stupid?”

A short beat of silence. Then, “We needn’t address that--”

“Apparently it’s okay because he’s,” Henry paused, making a production of trying to remember the words, as if they were not burned into his mind. “How’d you put it? ‘Well accustomed’ to his boss triggering him. I know that I had done the same, I know that I _caused_ a lot of it, but Joey shouldn’t suffer more for no reason.”

Fiddling with the brim of his hat, Bertrum suggested, “Let’s all sit and discuss this. And I would like to have a discussion with your boss as well. But first, we will get comfortable and then you can tell me about what happened. In full. Because it wasn’t just his boss that’s causing this rift, was it?”

“Henry did not do anything,” Pyrite blurted all too quickly. Still, between Bertrum’s unyielding expression and Mercury’s deafening silence, he swallowed back those words, shifting his balance to and fro. “It… it was me.” 

“I see,” Bertrum murmured, even though he did not. A bit dazed, he walked past them both and into the living room, because he had prepared for a completely different sort of bomb to be dropped on him, a broken window at the most, and now he needed to sit down. 

Behind him, Pyrite and Mercury exchanged an uneasy glance before trailing after him.

Once they had all taken a seat, he started the conversation with, “Do you still have Johan’s number?”

Both Henry and Joey confirmed they did at the same time.

“Wonderful. Hopefully he has the name of a therapist who specializes in _this_ madness as well as the supernatural.”

“This madness?” Pyrite echoed.

“This madness of a relationship,” Bertrum clarified, his voice like thunder, firm and rolling, meaning deeper than the words merely spoken. “It’s either we’re all over each other or avoiding Henry like the plague. This back and forth cannot be healthy for any of us.”

Pyrite opened his mouth, a broad grin already twisting whatever words he was about to say, when Mercury preempted him, in a tone that brokered no argument, “I agree.”

“ _I_ can surmount this min--” Joey began, and cut himself off. 

“‘Minor setback’, Joey?” Henry asked. “Is that what you would call that display the other night?”

“Nothing came of it,” Pyrite protested, voice barely above a mumble.

“Bertrum, Joey had to work late, his boss took out his frustrations on him--”

Joey insisted, “Not without just cause.”

Henry continued as if he had not spoken. “And that night he had two nightmares.”

“As an aside,” Joey added hastily. “Apparently prior exposure to the ink allows for a peculiar subconscious connection initiated through physical contact.” 

“We can explain that later, but because of it, I saw Joey’s dreams with him,” Henry’s hand flinched towards Pyrite’s, a jolt to hold it, held back at the last second. Henry continued after clearing his throat. “So, the first nightmare was about the final ritual, and how I… I betrayed him and left him to Them.”

At last Pyrite seemed to run out of interjections and interruptions. He clenched his fingers, forced them straighter than he was, staring at Henry’s hand, wrist held at an angle as he tried to determine whether to cross the gap, if the physical contact would genuinely help, or if he simply wanted to distract Henry from this topic. 

“I was able to interrupt and change things a bit,” Mercury explained. “But that doesn’t change that it is based on actual and real trauma that Joey is obviously still dealing with.”

Joey snapped, unable to hold himself back, “Nothing obvious about it whatsoever! I had a single lapse. This is hardly systemic.”

“You yourself told me that you still have constant nightmares about the aftermath of the ritual,” Henry brought up. “And I’m sure that Bertrum knows about your nightmares, too. You’re not as much of a quiet sleeper as you let on.”

“He has a point,” Bertrum acknowledged. “Your sleep is often uneasy and you cry out.”

“But even if it was a one time thing, dreaming about the ritual, that doesn’t change that the second one comes from a very real fear you have,” Mercury insisted. “That _I_ have.”

Pyrite finally settled his internal debate whether to grab Mercury’s hand by gripping his own wrist and holding it in his lap. He then remained stubbornly silent. 

“It was this place, this room, everything as it is these days, with one major difference.” Henry swallowed and forced his hands on his knees to stop their bouncing. “At least, I hope it’s major. Still, it was a difference, and one that affected Joey, badly.”

“What might this difference be?” Bertrum inquired.

Bluntly, Henry answered, “I acted the exact same as I used to. Same blame placing, same shaming, same awful words, lies and unreasonable expectations. Same… forcefulness, demanding. Carelessness for others. Abusive.”

“You’re both afraid of that?” Bertrum questioned, gaze flicking between Joey and Henry both. “Of returning to that sort of behaviour?”

Mercury just nodded. 

“And this is why couple’s therapy is necessary,” he groaned, a bit exasperated. No, not quite. Worn out by the inherently draining nature of dealing with negative emotions. “It’s perfectly acceptable to admit when you can’t shoulder the burden alone, even if ‘alone’ is three people.”

The silence that followed, pregnant with realization and begrudging acceptance of a harsh truth, weighed down heavily on all three men.

Then, Pyrite stood, wordless, and started limping toward the door.

“Joey?” Bertrum called. “Are you alright?”

“I will contact Johan,” Pyrite answered without turning around. “I concede your point.”

With that, Joey left the room. Bertrum and Mercury looked at each other, and Mercury offered so that Joey could hear him, “Do you want us to call him with you?”

At first, Mercury assumed Joey had not heard him, or rather was ignoring him. He hesitated to offer again, in case it was the latter, eying Bertrum nervously. 

Then Pyrite, still holding on to the phone with the wire stretched taut as he returned to stand in the doorway, mumbled, “I need assistance.”

“We’re coming,” Bertrum assured him, getting up.

Mercury followed quickly, though he kept a cautious distance, even when accepting the phone from Pyrite. He paused, however, realizing he too had difficulty getting his fingers to obey as he tried to dial. Glancing over to Bertrum, he held it out to him.

“Fine, what’s the number?” Bertrum sighed, glancing at them both. Henry passed him the crumpled paper from his pocket. “Why is it so long?”

“I… I don’t know,” Joey said, only now realizing, desensitised to most weirdness. “Never really thought about it, just considered it as magic minutiae.”

“Yeah, can you imagine someone trying some random number and accidentally dialling Johan?” Mercury with a small shrug. His faint smile and attempt at humor fled in an instant. “Thank you for calling for us.”

Bertrum fought the urge to roll his eyes, even if fondly. He was hardly displeased or put out by being the designated caller, but these two were definitely his idiots. He dialled up Johan’s number with quick, assured motions and awaited the other man’s voice on the other end.

“Oh. It’s you again. Hello.” 

“Hello?” Bertrum frowned at the voice that was decidedly not Johan, nor Ray’s. He did not recognize it, so why ‘again’? “I’d like to speak with Johan, if he’s available?”

“Ah. I’ll patch you through.”

The phone rang once more, and then another hand picked it up.

“H-Hello, Joey Drew speaking,” came the reply. “May I ask who’s calling?”

“Bertrum Piedmont,” he answered automatically, even knowing about the parallel and perpendicular universes. Chalk that one up to impulsivity and thoughtlessness. He clarified, “Mercury and Pyrite’s Bertrum. Would you be available for a social call?”

“Oh, yes,” Johan answered. “Whatever is the matter?”

The gentleman in him cringed at the assumption. Practicality won the day, however. “Perhaps this is a conversation best done in person, but we were wondering whether you knew of a couples’ therapist knowledgeable of the supernatural.”

“... well, y-yes.”

Bertrum let out a soft exhale of relief. “Thank you,” he said. “Recent events have shed some light on problems that have gone under the radar.”

“Ah, I see.” they could hear him shuffle some papers. “I can arrange an a-appointment with one, though I agree this should be talked about in person.”

“Certainly. It’s appreciated.” He hesitated, unsure how to phrase this. Mercury mouthed ‘What time’, but notably did not make any move closer to the phone. _Of course_. “When would be a convenient time for you?”

“Evening, perhaps. Late a-afternoon is best, actually,” Johan said, then corrected himself. “About t-two or three.”

“We’ll see you at three, then.” He hung up then and turned to Pyrite and Mercury both. Sternly, he said, “We _are_ bringing a gift. Johan doesn’t drink, and he has some dietary restrictions, so put your skulls together to thank both men. Pyrite, you certainly know by now what he can’t eat.”

“Dairy and meat,” Joey replied. 

“No flower allergies?” Henry asked, perking up slightly. “That you’re aware of?”

Joey chuckled, “He boasts an impressive garden. I should hope not.”

Bertrum nodded to Mercury. “Good thinking,” he praised. 

“Johan likes lemonade,” Pyrite recalled. “Though, he seems to prefer it warm.”

“There we go, game plan settled. I have a recipe for lemonade that would be delicious served warm or cold.”

Their efforts delegated - Pyrite the supplies, Bertrum the recipe and presentation, Mercury the flowers and various seeds and bulbs - made short work. It meant they were each busy for at least a short period of time, but also ready in an excess of hours to try to fill and attempt to find some semblance of normal. It would not go over well if they seemed like they could hardly remain in the same room together for any length of time. At least Bertrum provided enough buffer to allow Pyrite and Mercury the emotional distance they strived for, rather than searching it out in physical distance. 

Before long, they were all prepared and ready to go, each glancing at the other. 

“Pyrite?” Mercury hesitantly called out to the man. “Would you rather if I did it?”

Joey shook his head, drawn out of whatever thoughts that he had been wrapped up in. “No,” he replied as he summoned the book. He opened to the index first, found Johan’s designation on a different page than the last time, and then flipped to it. 

For once, he appeared to have the good fortune not to appear in their bedroom. Their luck did not extend to avoiding interrupting intimacy. 

“Ray, please, darlin’ they’ll b-be here soon-” Johan was laughing, pinned under Ray, a dropped tray on the floor beside the couch. Ray was kissing Johan’s neck, the man’s brain appearing to short circuit with every bit of contact. “You p-promised- mmm, Henry! Come off, sugar, I need to- OH! HELLO.”

Ray snapped to face the three visitors, his curls bouncing in his turn, and a small grin twitched on his lips. 

“Ah. Yes. Hello.”

Bertrum stood still, stunned a bit, before averting his gaze. 

“I wonder if sending a bell through beforehand as a warning would help,” Pyrite mumbled, more to himself than anything else. Perhaps he would try that. But then again, Johan’s universe seemed hell bent on this idea of phasing into Henry’s time with Johan.

“Don’t let us stop you!” Mercury said, all too cheery as he ushered Pyrite and Bertrum back to give the two some much needed privacy. 

“I don’t get it,” Ray murmured in complaint to Johan, but he was smiling. “Why is it only when I initiate anything?”

“Because you’re a right d-damn bastard, that’s why,” Johan chuckled back. He summoned his computer, and after typing a few lines of code, the tray picked itself up, a shadowy Johan holding it, a few items that had fallen being lifted in an odd falling reverse. He picked it up from the shadow, and it vanished. “Well, welcome! Make yourselves comfortable.”

“Did you revert the tray to a previous non-overturned state, or some sort of translation of positions?” Pyrite asked, unable to help himself, though his two lovers (lover and former business partner? Lover and tentative lover? Lover and ex?) had already seated themselves.

“Uh, time reversal, in a minimum stance?” Johan answered somewhat, confused with himself. “Reversing the. Area. R-rather than the whole.”

Pyrite opened his mouth to ask another question, then thought better of it and took a seat on one of the armchairs, not expecting it to be so soft. It was one of the most plush things his butt ever experienced. “Thank you,” he said after a moment of adjusting, “for answering that, and agreeing to a visit.”

“Of course,” Ray nodded. “We’ve got all the time in the world, especially for friends. Ah, Johan, by the by, didn’t Bertrum say he was interested in meeting them?”

“He did, yes,” Johan recalled. “Ah, Mr. Piedmont, you should give yourself a nickname. Something that encompasses you, or a middle name.”

It was a simple enough conclusion to come to. “Diesel,” he decided. “Does that work?”

“Yes, it does,” a new, but not new, voice said. This Bertrum’s tones were more musical, denoting more than just an English background. He put his hand out to shake, bronze eyes studying the newcomers. “Pantheon.”

Diesel accepted the handshake first, firm and appraising, feeling only slightly disoriented by proof of other hims being right in his face. The other him’s hands were calloused from work, a ridge where a pen rested constantly. “A pleasure to meet you,” he greeted. “Johan speaks quite highly of you.”

“Absolutely,” Pyrite agreed, smirking somewhat up at the man. “How gratifying to place a face to the name at last.”

“Uncle Bertie, this is Pyrite, Mercury, a-and Diesel,” Johan introduced, gesturing at each.

Mercury, just now realizing that in the _excitement_ from earlier he still held onto the gift basket. Therefore, no hands available for handshake. Therefore, something that needed to be addressed. “Johan, Ray,” he said, so very elegantly and not at all out of his depth, “we got you a present.” 

“Isn’t that darling!” Johan’s eyes lit up, refraining from clapping by clasping his hands together by his chest. His smile was wide and happy. A thought passed in Mercury’s mind, the thought that he doubted Johan got many presents as a child. That would be fixed soon.

He pressed it into Ray’s hands with a grin that hopefully hid the fact he was well aware that ‘Uncle Bertie’ was protective of Johan before shaking Pantheon’s. “Nice to meet you,” Mercury said with an easy nod.

Surprisingly, the man’s grip was firm and uncompromising, but he still had all his fingers intact by the end. (It was almost as if most rational people preferred not to cause others pain, even when they were upset with the other person.)

“Reciprocated,” Pantheon replied, and sat down on the couch to be beside Johan, Ray on the lanky man’s other side. “Now, Joey, Joey, Henry, Henry, other Bertrum - we can truly get settled, yes? I don’t know much about you three, so why not tell me a bit, each something about the other and then a small something about yourself?”

“Provided you agree to an exchange,” Pyrite suggested, an inquisitive smirk on his lips. “A quid-pro-quo?”

“Ah, of course,” Pantheon nodded. “It’s only natural to be desired from someone of your level of curiosity. I will do my best to fulfill that.” 

"Mercury gardens a fair bit," Pyrite began, obviously electing to rip off the bandage so to speak. "Diesel as well is something of a dilettante of wines and spirits. I--" A brief, near imperceptible pause as he decided what to share, "--work as an assistant financial advisor." 

Bertrum nodded, though rose an eyebrow, “I doubt that is a very comfortable position for you. Not that I doubt your capabilities, yet from what I know you’re more of a scholar and artist.”

Pyrite held back an instinctual waspish comment defending his arithmetic ability, realizing he had jumped to an erroneous conclusion, and waved off any tension that may have crept into his posture. “I do prefer those fields,” he admitted, but did not elaborate. “Now, if you’d be so kind to share something about yourself?”

“Out of all foods, I prefer fresh pita with hummus as a lunch,” Pantheon replied. “Unlike dear Lacie. Hir preferences are more expensive.”

  
“That’s funny, because Diesel’s tastes _are_ expensive,” Mercury pointed out. “There was this ragu cut of beef--”

“Wagyu,” Diesel corrected, not unkindly. 

“-- that he went absolutely nuts over. Pyrite likes his coffee with cinnamon and milk. And I like chocolates, especially liqueurs.”

“I like my coffee with vast amounts of sugar and cream,” Pantheon smiled, and then he jabbed a thumb toward Johan. “This one says it’s the only way he’d drink coffee, and it is, if he can get his hands on it, the lactose intolerant fool.”

“It tastes g-good!” 

“Additionally,” Pantheon continued, leaning back, “I was the designated watcher over Johan when he was going through nicotine withdrawal.”

“I see.” Diesel nodded to show his understanding before he continued, “Congratulations on kicking the habit, but… aren’t those symptoms rather mild comparatively?”

“When you add morphine to the mix it gets messy,” Ray offered, taking Johan’s hand. The lanky man was rather quiet, but was clearly more or less at ease with the conversation. “It was a simultaneous withdrawal. Alcohol, too. It’s also more greatly impacted with the fact he was hardly eating due to smoking - what was it that you said about it, Johan?”

“Twenty five cents for twenty five st-staved off meals is better than one dollar for one small bite to eat,” Johan responded, looking up in remembrance. “It was… well, survivalism. If I really n-needed food I’d hold off on smokin’, but it was hell all over.”

Pyrite pursed his lips in thought. “How young were you, Johan, when you were in such dire straits?”

“Obviously you don’t have to answer any of our questions,” Mercury piped up. 

“Well, do you want the h-honest answer or the softer one?”

“Whatever degree of specificity you are comfortable with,” Pyrite answered. 

“My father introduced me to the h-habit when I was five,” Johan sighed. Henry gave his hand a soft squeeze. “But I didn’t pick it up until I was sixteen, and I was p-practically living off cigs most of seventeen. Didn’t manage to quit until twenty two.”

Diesel looked ready to commit a murder. He adjusted the brim of his hat and grit his jaw, but said nothing, lest what words escaped were little more than invectives. 

“I am incredibly proud of you,” Pyrite insisted. “I am proud of the person you have become, the odds you have surmounted, and the myriad accomplishments and loved ones you have collected.”

Johan blinked, his jaw knotting slightly. Then he blinked a few more times, and buried his face in his hands, shoulders shaking. His head turned side to side, mutely denying those words. 

“If you happened not to hear me,” Pyrite said, though his tone made it obvious he knew quite well that he had been listening, “I will repeat myself. I am immensely proud of you. I harbor a great deal of respect for you, Johan ‘Joey’ Ramirez Drew. You are a marvelous and spectacular person.”

“I’m nothing to be proud of,” Johan protested, head still in his hands, finally voicing his doubts.

“You are plenty, and you mean plenty to a number of people. You deserved to have been told that since you were young, and reminded whenever the first roots of doubt began to sprout.”

“It’s not a p-part of me to be g-good,” Johan acerbically, aridly, answered. “Reminders would have m-made it worse, did make it worse.”

“Johan,” Ray cautiously started, taking his hand. Johan repressed a shiver. “It’s okay, sweetheart, yeah? No need to get upset.”

“What Pyrite meant to say,” Mercury interjected, “was that you don’t think much of yourself but a lot of people do so let us think it, even if you think we’re wrong.”

Diesel steepled his fingers together and brought them to his lips, an ersatz prayer for some patience. “Now is likely not the time to be repeatedly telling the man something he is not ready to hear yet,” he noted. “Pantheon’s earlier game was a good conversation starter, however, before we started going about in circles. Maybe we can either return to that or extrapolate to something just as easy and entertaining?”

“In uni we’d play a game called ten fingers,” Ray ventured, though his cheeks colored even as he spoke. “It had nothing to do with hands - that was the kid version. Well, the adult version is with booze. Dear Johan can have the medicine he loves to avoid.”

“Yuck.”

“Exactly.”

“Well, this should prove an enjoyable way to learn about each other,” Diesel chuckled. 

“We’ll recompense you for the alcohol of course,” Pyrite offered.

“No need, Shawn’s got literal barrels,” Ray grinned. 

Pantheon added, “In our back rooms, too.”

Mercury perked up. “Oh, so your Shawn is Irish too?” he asked. 

“I believe that t-to be a constant,” Johan replied. He pulled a pager like object from his belt, and scrolled through it for a few moments. “He’s bringing us up two bottles. I told h-him one, but he insisted on two.”

“That seems to be a constant as well,” Pyrite muttered, then shifted in place a bit. This would be interesting, at the very least. Hopefully. “Shall we go about the room for this beginning with Ray, for proposing this exercise?”

“Sounds fine by me,” Ray smirked. There was a knock on the door, and he got up to fetch from Shawn the two bottles. “Thanks, Flynn.”

“No problem, doc,” they could hear Shawn reply. “Have fun!”

“I feel the need to warn you all now,” Mercury said, no small amount of pride in his voice, “that I have never once been drunk under the table. So, best of luck.”

Johan looked at Ray, eyes big. 

“Just this once?”

“No.” Ray and Pantheon replied together. Johan pouted, but rolled his eyes, standing to get glasses for them all. 

Diesel nodded his thanks to the man as he left, then asked Ray and Patheon, “I can only assume that Johan will stop taking doses of his medication once he’s had what he needs?” 

“It’s more vitamins and regulators, can’t really get enough,” Ray answered. “Though he’ll claim a sip is more than enough.”

“Because it’s disgusting,” Johan responded with ease, returning with the cups. 

“I’m sure it is, and no one likes taking their medicine, but it’s for your health,” Mercury pointed out. “Now, sips or full glasses?”

Pyrite hissed, “ _Sips_.” 

“Sips is fine,” Ray chuckled. “Though I’d say it’s up to the drinker - if they want to get hammered, hammer away, but I have to warn you Shawn’s stuff is mighty heavy.”

“I’m sure it’s laid lesser men out on their asses,” Mercury boasted. Once the glasses were filled and distributed according to individual needs, he smirked. “Because _never_ have I ever gotten drunk playing this game.”

Neither Johan nor Diesel took a sip, but Pyrite did. And immediately grimaced at the burn, first in his throat, then nestling behind his lungs like a particularly stubborn and fiery burr. Fighting a cough, he pulled back from the glass like it had slapped him and rasped, “Oh, _no._ ”

“What’s the matter?” Ray asked, lowering his cup, grinning and licking off stray droplets of the drink from his lips. “Too rough for a petit like you?

“I typically leave the kerosene for the jet engines,” he returned. He eyed Ray’s display with a mixture of awe, and also a bit of disguised worry, the same sort of way a parent might look at their child who just drank far, far too much cola.

“I might not be a jet engine, but I’m not called Ray for nothing,” Ray remarked, winking. Johan snorted and rolled his eyes. “Anyways, Pyrite, I do believe it is your turn.”

“I suppose it is. Never have I ever lied about my age.”

Johan groaned as Ray laughed. Pantheon stared at his own hands, brows furrowed. 

“What if one is not entirely certain of his own age?” Pantheon asked as Johan and Ray stared at one another, Johan pouting and Ray smirking as he poured the medicine into his glass. “Because, well I am not so old, yet… it’s difficult to determine the exacts.”

Diesel thought for a minute. “I would say the intent would be the deciding factor, truly,” he decided and, receiving a nod from Pyrite, continued, “Unintentionally misleading someone about your age due to your own ignorance is another animal.”

“So just me, eh?” Johan sank into his seat. “Well, hell. Better get this o-over with.”

The grimace he made taking the cup from Ray, albeit gracefully, was nothing compared to the look of agony he got from the actual sip. 

“Aw, sweetheart, I know you hate it, but it’s good for you,” Ray placated. “And you won’t have to take it again for a while after the game.”

“It’s absolutely detestful.”

“There are some vile tinctures, I’ll concede, but surely it can’t be that bad?” Pyrite asked, watching the younger man curiously. Johan resisted the urge to stick out his tongue. “Really now, it shouldn’t be ‘detestful’.”

“You can have a bit next time you have to take a sip,” Johan replied. “Then you can agree.”

Mercury nudged Diesel and whispered, in a deliberately terrible sotto voce, “I remember a certain thirty-four year old man claiming to be twenty-nine at a party.”

Rolling his eyes, and coloring slightly from the embarrassment of the memory, he took the swallow; he colored further from the rush of alcohol. Ray was right - it was no soft wine. It was not so harsh as Pyrite had made it out to seem, but still a bit of a punch behind it. “Johan, as you had to drink the ‘detestable’ stuff, the next round goes to you.”

“And what about y-your turn?” Johan inquired, glancing about, raising a brow. “Wouldn’t it be better to go in a circle?”

“Fair enough.” Diesel paused to think over his options. Perhaps it was the alcohol already emboldening him but he threw the statement out there. At the very least, it would be entertaining and informative. “Never have I ever killed a man.”

A wave of groans emanated from nearly everyone in the room. Once again Pantheon debated before merely licking a bit of his drink, not really a sip, nor ignoring ‘maybe’s. Ray, pointing towards an army medal, sipped. Johan and Mercury looked at each other, both with looks of worry and befuddlement.

“Do I have to take a sip for each one, or…?” Mercury asked Diesel.

Johan looked alarmed. “Oh, p-please say no. I wouldn’t be able to drink all of that.”

“Just how many could _you_ have--”

Shocked and acting instinctively, Pyrite downed the rest of his glass, too quickly, and coughed again, much louder this time, effectively cutting Mercury off. He shot the man a warning glare, remembering all too clearly at least one time where Johan could blame himself for the massacre of the human race.

Johan, anyways, answered, not even thinking of the numbers, “Odd of two and a half billion, twice over, though only one intentionally.”

Mercury was silent for a long minute, staring at Johan, then the glass, then Pyrite who was frowning disapprovingly, then Johan again, before he took a long, deep swig. “Suddenly forty-six doesn’t seem as huge,” he said, a bit of a hysterical giggle bubbling in his words. “One _intentionally_ ? How do you _accidentally_ kill _everyone_?”

“By being patient zero of a p-pathogen?” Johan tried to smile, but failed. Ray took his hand. “Somehow I have enough c-connections to infect an entire world. Then the other time was-”

“Maybe we shouldn’t talk about that one,” Pantheon softly remarked. Johan swallowed and nodded, grateful for his uncle’s gentle intrusion. “Ah. One sip would be fine. And I’ll go next. Never have I ever been on a motorcycle.”

“This is j-just pickin’ on me, at this point,” Johan complained, sipping, straining not to spit out the awful concoction. Ray sipped himself, smiling at his love. 

Diesel shook his head, as did Pyrite, who looked relieved to be able to say so, leaning back a bit heavily in the chair, but Mercury took his due sip. “It counts if you sat on the end, right?” he checked, only after he had already swallowed.

“Yeah,” Ray nodded, then rose one of his legs. “There’s no way I’d be able to drive one of them - especially not Johan’s, with all those modifications.”

“Ah, who’s-- who is petit now?” Pyrite smirked, his words catching on his tongue.

“Ah, mon cher, there is petit and there is sturdy,” Ray grinned, raising his glass. “And it seems to be my turn.”

He glanced at the two on the couch with him, his grin turning wolfish as he snapped his fingers.

“Never have I ever broken a mirror.”

“Why are you doing this to me?” Johan asked, his voice cracking as he prepared himself for another sip. Afterwards, he hissed, “Foul disgusting poison!” 

Pantheon also grimaced with his own sip. 

Idly toying with the empty glass in his hand, Pyrite snorted at Johan’s vehement disgust. Ray caught his eye, and filled up his cup for him. 

“You’re not getting out of this just from an empty cup,” he chuckled.

“If I splice them betwixt dimensions,” he warned, smirking, teetering a bit, “I place the blame at your feet. Johan next?”

“Er,” the man replied, trying to think. “Um. Never have I ever… had a t-tooth knocked out? Yeah. Wait. Yes.”

Pantheon rose his glass a tad and sipped. 

“From a nasty fight with that one horrid investor,” his lips twitched into a slight smile as he recalled the incident. “Very worth it, I’d say. No one gets to use words like that towards _my_ people. Or ever at all.”

“Well, now mine seems awfully mundane in comparison to your valiance,” Pyrite noted, taking his sip. He grimaced. “Just the one, correct? The baseball knocked out three and I doubt any of us would like that.”

“One for each objective, not quantity of it,” Ray clarified. “Sounds good, yes?”

Pyrite mumbled, “Delightful.”

Mercury snickered and sipped off his glass. “I lost one during an argument, too,” he confirmed. “Don’t remember specifics, but I think it was who got the skipping rope. Not so interesting. My go?”

“Yes, it is,” Pantheon nodded.

He paused, mulling over the possibilities. “I have never had a wound that needed stitches.”

Johan groaned again before taking a sip, hand curling into a fist and banging onto the table in his flavor anguish. 

Pantheon patted his back as he took a sip of his own. Olive cheeks were tinged with a slight hint of pink, now, a perpetual smile perpetrated by alcohol on his lips. 

Diesel watched him for a moment. 

“Bertie,” Pyrite whined, though were he more sober he would never have admitted to such. “You’ve had, what, ah-- one drink?”

He glanced over at him, studying him and gauging where he intended to take such an observation. “Yes?”

Pyrite snorted to himself. “Never have I ever graduated college,” he giggled, trying only the bare minimum to reign in his amusement.

“Shit!” Ray laughed, sipping. Pantheon also took a sip.

Johan looked at his cup. “Er, does it count if one earned a-an honorary doctorate? I never graduated high school, so… no college either, b-but I wrote enough papers on theoretical physics that I was g-given a PhD.”

Despite the flush to his cheeks, a calculating glint entered his alcohol hazed gaze. He was not nearly drunk enough yet to overlook such an admission. Instead of addressing it though, he asked, “Have you got an embossed piece of paper with your name framed and displayed someplace?”

“Well, not really,” Johan responded, lifting up a leg to rest it on the couch. “It’s j-just in the government and educational system. I’ve s-said some speeches at some schools.”

Pyrite raised up his glass. “Then,” he said, gesturing grandly, “despite the fact you went through the troubles and efforts and exertion, you escape the foul liquid for now.” 

Mercury and Diesel both took their shots even as Johan relaxed, though Mercury seemed to take a deeper swig, as if trying to drown a memory that the question had reminded him of. 

Diesel, competitive spirit and alcohol both running in his veins now, said, “Never have I ever forwent bodily needs -- food, sleep, water -- in favor of working.”

“Damnit!” Johan cried, and took a sip as quick as he could. Neither Ray nor Pantheon drank, and opted to pat Johan’s back. “Gross, yuck, nasty! It’s like it’s p-punishing me for doing those things now!”

Too busy laughing himself breathless, Pyrite folded over, setting his glass down on the table before he could spill any on their furniture. When he began to wheeze, whole body shaking, he gasped, “It… It can _not_ be nearly so--” he paused suddenly, blinking, as if his words had dried up in his mind. “It’s not that bad. It can’t be. Give me a taste?”

Johan passed him his cup.

Pyrite knew what he had been expecting. A sort of chemical aftertaste, artificial strawberry cloyingly thick, perhaps. This was not that. This was... This was if getting doused in ice water in winter had a taste. If getting your nose punched into your skull had a taste. Chased by a back-alley sawbones’s ethanol based attempts to anesthetize the pain. Tears sprang up in his eyes almost immediately and his gorge rose. “Dear God,” he croaked. “ _Dear God_ , allow the man to s-switch to water.”

Diesel gave the cup a single, momentary glance before deciding that Pyrite’s response was evidence enough to satisfy his curiosity. Mercury, on the other hand, decidedly looked nowhere in either Johan or Pyrite’s direction, lest the action be taken as interest. Unlike Mercury, who had decided the floor was very fascinating, Diesel had glanced over to Pantheon again. 

The man had a sort of refinement, even when inebriated, that made Diesel, of course, want to unearth a sort of unhinged expression in the man. He looked, for lack of any other phrase, like a marble statue made flesh, grecian and glorious. He could stand among the columns at the Parthenon and Diesel, nor anyone, would not think him out of place. Unthinkingly, he rested one elbow on his knee and propped up his chin as he watched the man.

Pantheon caught his gaze, and blinked a few times, the pink in his cheeks growing ever so slightly. He hastened to continue the game, and said, “Well, Johan agreed to his medication, and so - that is what he will have. Now, whose turn is it?”

“I do believe you are next,” Diesel answered him, only the slightest decorum keeping him from purring the words.

“Oh, yes,” his minor accent slipped into the words, drawn in by the alcohol. “Hm, let’s see, ah, never have I ever gotten stung by a bee.”

Neither Ray nor Johan drunk, Johan muttering, “Thank g-goodness.”

Pyrite, sinking into the absurdly plush chair properly now, made no effort to reach for his glass, simply shaking his head. Blinking fast and obviously hoping a look of great contemplation would hide the creeping coloration of drunkenness along his cheeks, Mercury took another sip. Diesel took a sip as well, methodically wiping away a stray droplet dribbling off the rim with a smooth brush of his lips. 

“I have once,” Diesel admitted. “The sweet scent was worth it entirely.”

“Never have I ever worked hands on with mechanical things,” Ray remarked, swirling his glass. “Like building anything or constructing or anything of the sort.”

“This is ridiculous,” Johan muttered, sipping. Pantheon sipped as well, glad to use the alcohol to hide his blush.

Pyrite blinked, once, twice, and shifted in the chair until he was crammed comfortably in the crevice. “Bluep- the drafting. Sketch. The blueprints. Do they count?”

“No, just hands on,” Ray confirmed, smiling at the very drunk man. “Actual building.”

He offered a sideways thumbs up.

Diesel snorted as he took a sip. “It seems my earlier good luck has run dry.”

“Appears so,” Ray nodded, smirking. “And it’s Johan’s turn. Let’s see what he might not have in common with you all.”

Johan seemed baffled, as each time it came back to him.

“Well,” he began, then stopped again. “Um.” he thought a while longer. “I.”

“You’ve done too much, love,” Ray laughed. 

“I know that,” Johan crossly replied. “Now let m-me try to think of s-something I haven’t. Oh! Never h-have I ever flown on an airplane or helicopter.”

Both Ray and Pantheon drank, clinking their glasses together.

Mercury downed his dues first, then Diesel. Pyrite just shook his head. 

“My go?” Mercury asked once he had swallowed, receiving bleary nods in reconnaissance. “Never have I ever seduced three people at once.”

“Ah. I _s_ uppose-- Henry, that’ _s_ ,” Pyrite began, voice dragging sibilantly. “Tha’ _s_ fair but _who_ has?”

Diesel very delicately took his sip, to the bafflement of his two lovers.

As did all three men on the couch. Lifting his brows, Diesel smirked at Pantheon.

“With a french father and scot mum, you tend to have quite a magnetism,” Ray grinned broadly. 

Pantheon rolled his eyes, flushed a bit, saying, “My father _is_ Eros - quite hard for some people who can sense these things to resist, and that type tends to congregate.”

“In my defense,” Johan began slowly. “They all were makin’ moves on me, apparently, for months, and I didn’t notice at all, u-until it hit like a train. Technically, they a-all seduced _me_ , though I’m glad they d-did.”

Mercury nudged Pyrite’s foot, gathering the man’s fading attention unobtrusively while the others discussed their apparent and obvious charisma. “Babies,” he mouthed, mindful of the movements.

“Congratsulations,” Pyrite slurred, snickering to himself. “Hm. Never have I ne-- ever sired a spa-- child.”

Ray sipped along with Mercury. 

Johan’s eye twitched as he too sipped, grimacing at taste and memory.

“When did _you_ have the time to have a kid?” Mercury demanded. “Or the… the anything?”

Johan flushed, shifting.

“I didn’t, n-not really,” Johan answered slowly, carefully, voice dropping lower and lower with each word, until his sounds were nigh imperceptible. “I… I didn’t. I didn’t… wanna have a kid.”

Suddenly much more alert, Pyrite sat up in the chair, or tried to. “Wait,” he mumbled. “Wait.”

Diesel offered Johan an openly worried look. “We needn’t continue this topic,” he said.

“You’re basically a kid yourself,” Mercury insisted despite the others. “When the hell did you have sex, let alone a kid?”

“I… I was drugged,” Johan swallowed, and sipped at his medicine only to whet his mouth, otherwise unable to talk. “By my parents. I wasn’t… I wasn’t aware of anything. I didn’t… um, didn’t really have sex. I don’t think.”

“It doesn’t count, Johan,” Pantheon assured him. Johan smiled at him gratefully. Then he continued for Johan. “Damn bastards knew that if Johan had something or someone relying on him, he wouldn’t be able to leave. Among other ‘reasons’ for doing that to him.”

“I had Rami for just under a year,” Johan smiled with his eyes closed, a stray tear slipping out. “A right darn angel. Beautiful baby girl of m-mine.”

Ray hugged him, gently over his shoulders, pressing a kiss to his brow. 

There was a brief silence, Johan having said his piece, as also all the others. 

Diesel lifted his glass, a bit tentative in the toasting motion. “To Rami?” he suggested. 

“Aramis Solaris,” Johan corrected softly, smiling.

“To Aramis Solaris, and her beautiful life,” Diesel adjusted his earlier toast, offering his own smile, though his was slightly apologetic of the subject. Pyrite lilted a bit but raised his glass, Mercury doing the same sans looking off-kilter. “And her continuing influence in the hearts of those who knew her.”

Ray and Pantheon nodded, raising their own cups. Johan turned away, blushing.

“After such a somber revelation…” Diesel paused, considering and weighing his words and the potential fallout. There was a surprising number of emotional hot beds, though it was perhaps to be expected considering their respective histories. He said, “Never have I ever had a surprise party thrown in my honor.”

Pyrite opened his mouth.

“Nor do I feel slighted for the lack,” he added hastily, before anyone could get any ideas. “But, never have I ever.”

Johan sipped, but neither Ray nor Pantheon did.

Dutifully, Mercury took his sip. “When my sons were young,” he explained, almost shrugging, an odd twinge of regret twisting his brow. “Pantheon, your turn, I think?”

“Yes, it is,” Pantheon admitted. He grinned, looking at Ray. “Never have I ever gotten interrupted during intimacy, specifically such that I initiated.”

Ray sipped, obligatorily taking more of a gulp in acknowledgement.

For the moment content to snicker at Ray’s predicament, Pyrite sat back. 

“If I recall,” Diesel reminded Pyrite, “ _you_ initiated your fair share of interrupted moments.”

His laughter cut short. “Damn,” he cursed. “You drink, too.”

Diesel watched the thinner man before taking his own sip. 

“I do try not to make a habit of it,” he scoffed.

“Never have I ever been made of ink,” Ray pursed his lips, raising a brow at Pantheon. Pantheon and Johan each sipped, as did Pyrite. Ray’s pout turned into a smirk. “Good.”

“Rrrrude,” Pyrite grumbled. “You an’ y’r. Your. Non ink ness.”

“Well, never have I ever c-ceased existing fully,” Johan nudged the two beside him. They both sighed and took sips. 

“Good one!” Mercury laughed. “Shoot, uh, never have I ever divorced.”

Ray gaped at him, turning red, sputtering.

Still, he sipped, though complained, “It was complicated, not really a divorce but… ugh, that’s the easiest thing to call it, isn't it.”

“Mmm,” Pyrite hummed. “Ne’er have I ever kisses- kissed someone on the firs’ day I met ‘em.”

Ray sipped, and Diesel stared at Pyrite, looking both amused and flustered. 

“Well, this might come as a surprise to you, then,” he said, slow enough for the intoxicated man to process. “ _Our_ very first meeting, where you requested that I ‘cease toiling endlessly for fruitless efforts’? To join part of something that would go much further and enable me to see my name in lights?”

“Yessss…?”

Diesel huffed in laughter. “During that party, you kissed me. On the lips. And a bit more.”

“I-- what?”

“There was tongue.”

“That was-- really?” Stupefied, Pyrite took a sip from his glass. “Fel’ like a dream.”

“Really now, drinkin’ on y-your own turn,” Johan snorted. 

He glanced down at his glass in affront, as if it was the drink’s fault. Which, technically it was.

Diesel was silent for a bit, even after he stopped laughing at Pyrite’s predicament. “Never have I been unfaithful to any of my partners,” he said after a moment’s concentration. 

“Hell, you all are going right for the throat,” Ray softly remarked, sipping. Johan watched silently. Ray caught his eye and looked at his shoes. “I’m sorry, again.”

“It was two r-runs ago,” Johan gently told him, cupping the side of his face and kissing his nose. “You’ve improved so m-much since then.”

Setting down his glass once more, Pyrite folded his hands in his lap, forced his double vision aside (mostly) to watch the two interact, measuring the tenderness and affection between them. “I’s suppose tha’s novel imform-- information,” he said, enunciating as clearly as he could manage. “I trus’ Johan’s judgement.”

Ray laughed quietly in his throat, “You don’t even wanna know how I managed to apologize.”

“You d-did break my heart, I wasn’t planning on lettin’ you back in so quick,” Johan reminded.

Ray nodded, and smiled slightly, “I did spend quite a bit of time in the dog house. And I wish I didn’t do it. I’m glad that things have been changed through the temporal realities, though it doesn’t erase what I did.”

“It doesn’t,” Mercury agreed. “People can’t just flip a switch and get over it. They have to work through the problems. And it’s awful to expect the wounded party to ignore their hurt and healing to keep the peace.”

“Never have I ever heard Mercury talk like that,” Diesel remarked. No one sipped, even though they all clearly just heard - protected by the fact it was not Diesel’s turn. 

“Never have I ever dyed my hair,” Pantheon leaned back. Johan puffed up, proud of his natural hair, and Ray smirked - with hair like his, it would be blasphemy to hide it or mar it at all.

Mercury seemed a bit embarrassed to admit that his coloration was still natural, dark gray bordering black, even after all these years, but did not reach for his glass. Diesel and Pyrite both held off as well. 

“Have we at last found something none of us have done?” Diesel asked to confirm. 

Johan froze, then started laughing.

“For a party once,” he said, picking up his cup, “Pink. Temporary, still dyed.”

“Never have I ever,” Ray thought for a moment, ruffling Johan’s hair. “Had a grandkid, or grand niece or nephew.”

Pantheon and Mercury sipped, raising their glasses towards one another.

“Sister’s offsss- kid. Their kid. That’s grand-niece, righ’?” Pyrite asked.

Ray nodded, smirking as Pyrite sipped, swaying in his seat.

Johan said suddenly, finally glad to have something coming to him so quick, “N-never have I ever been older than th-thirty five.”

Everyone besides him drank. Pantheon pointed out with a smile, brushing his lush sweep from his eyes, “Pyrite’s had the least, and yet! Is the most drunk.”

Diesel watched the motion carefully, appraising him like he would watch the proceedings of a trial run of a machine, eyes following the path and committing it to memory.

A mischievous glint entered Mercury’s eyes. “Has he really had the least?” 

“Well, almost, had he not drank his entire cup in one shot,” Pantheon chuckled. “Technically, Diesel has had the least, though Pyrite should have. And that one sip of Johan’s medication.”

“Thaaa’s no medicine,” Pyrite grumbled, head leaning to a side. “It’s he- hell juice.”

“Would you prefer kerosene?” Mercury quipped. “Never have I ever thrown up on a rollercoaster.”

Groaning, Diesel complained, “That was _one_ time.”

“One’s plenty enough for a drink.”

Though he complained about it somewhat, Diesel took his sip, then adjusted his hat to hide the growing flush on his face, then gave up entirely, setting it down on the table. Hat head or no, there was not quite enough comfortable positions that did not somewhat dislodge or bend the brim of his hat. Pantheon huffed a small chuckle, cheeks retaining their blush and his inebriated smile growing for just a moment.

“Does after coun'?” mumbled Pyrite. His bleary, unfocused gaze locked on Diesel, then followed to the table, and some minute degree of lucidity sparked there for a moment.

“He said ‘on’, so, no,” Ray patted his arm gently. “You’re fine.”

“‘M trash-- trashed,” he corrected with a snort. “Ever-- Never ev-- never have I ever worn a hat. Only th’ hat.”

Red exploded on Johan’s face, and his jaw dropped. 

“Only! Only the h-hat?!” he spluttered, wrapping his cloak around him, wide red eyes matching his cheeks. “Oh, m-my heavens! I’ve showered in clothes!”

“I’m sure that was very cost effective,” Diesel said drily, then took his sip, watching Pantheon’s reaction surreptitiously.

The man, who was already a marvelous tint of pink, flushed another shade darker, lips twitching down into a slight incredulous frown, bronze eyes widening ever so slightly as brows rose half an inch. 

Noticing this, Diesel brushed his thumb across his lip to wipe away a stray drop then licked that clean. “I would be more naked without the hat,” he commented. “Even fully dressed.”

“So, such as right now?” Pantheon suggested, raising his brow properly, looking over him.

At first, he did not respond verbally, instead just offering an almost predatory grin. “Never have I ever kissed myself.”

Diesel was not expecting anyone to drink, but the red that was just starting to ebb away from Johan’s face surged back, and he steadied himself before sipping. Ray was grinning at him widely.

“My, aren’t you the adventurous one,” the park maker remarked. 

“Well, er, I,” Johan stumbled over his words, swallowing and adjusting his collar. “One gets lonely, especially w-when they’re the only person i-in a world.”

“And who could resist my sweetheart Johan’s beauty?” Ray smirked, pulling him down to kiss his cheek, considerate of the taste of alcohol on his lips. “Clearly not himself.”

“Would you two like some private time?” Mercury questioned. The alcohol had stripped bare every iota of his ability to bullshit, leaving only open sincerity in his steel-blue eyes. 

Johan looked as though he was about to have a stroke.

“We’re absolutely f-fine!” he managed to claim. “A kiss on the cheek-k doesn’t mean that we’re about to smother each other w-with affection.”

Mercury offered a thumbs up of encouragement. “Just say the word,” he assured Johan. “And then you _can_ smother him in all the affection you want.”

Johan merely glared at him, though the effect was extremely mitigated by his mortified underlying expression and head to toe flush.

“Never have I ever,” the smiling Pantheon began, “Spent more than an hour on my appearance. Ray, don’t try to weasel your way out of this.”

Ray grumbled into his cup, but drank anyways. His cheeks formed a nice melody with the strawberry curls in his hair. 

“It takes time and patience for those of us not so lucky to be effortlessly gorgeous,” Diesel lamented as he downed his sip. His cheeks burned ever brighter and he watched Pantheon. “Not everyone looks as statuesque without trying.”

Pantheon’s smile faltered slightly, but picked back up momentarily.

Ray commented, leaning back, “Never have I ever had perfect vision.”

Mercury lifted his glass, set it down, leaned back, then lifted it back up. “What if it _became_ perfect? Does that still count?”

Ray squinted at him, alcohol fuzzing his vision, and he laughed, just a little bit, before replying; “The keyword is ‘never’.”

Attempting to grunt gruffly ended in him snickering, unable to keep a straight face, especially due to Ray’s infectious laughter, and he drank. Pyrite, his hand on the seat beside him as if that would help keep him from his eventual slide to the floor, drank as well. 

Diesel shook his head. “Aside from a few choice exceptions, my vision is not perfect.”

“Choice exceptions?” Ray laughed again, the alcohol peeking into his brain. “I’ve heard of selective hearing, but selective vision?”

“You’ve never heard of having eyes for only a certain someone?”

“Ah,” Ray nodded sagely, eyes still sparkling with mirth even as he took Johan’s hand, smiling. “‘Course I have. Though everyone’s got their merits.”

“Never have I ever played harp,” Johan nudged Pantheon. The man’s blush turned a tad prideful as he sipped. “There’s a bunch of other th-things I do play, though.”

“A man of many talents,” Diesel praised. “It seems to be you all by your lonesome, Pantheon.”

“Never minded being solitary much,” Pantheon rebuffed. Then he blushed all the more, with a dreamy expression crossing his face, soft and handsome. “Well. There’s my spouse’s company, which I adore greatly.”

“That much is obvious,” Diesel noted, taking in the way Pantheon’s entire demeanor appeared to soften with his affection for his spouse. His eyes gleamed, warmed from within, and his lips quirked in the best sort of careless, thoughtless smile. That did prompt him, however, to recall his own partners that he had rather inconsiderately flirted openly in front of. Blushing even deeper, he glanced away from the source of his inattentiveness and distraction. He edged closer to Mercury and nudged the man’s foot under the coffee table, making sure no other visible sign of the motion carried through to his posture or expression.

“I’ve a question,” Diesel murmured, low enough to only be heard by Mercury. “Concerning that last fleck of information.”

“What’s up?” he questioned, managing to keep his voice quiet. 

“You wouldn’t mind if I kissed Pantheon, would you?”

His brows rose slightly before he hid his amusement by ducking his head. “Go for it, go smooch yourself.” 

“Merc’ry,” Pyrite fumbled with the man’s name, catching his attention as the others in the room approached a lull in their own conversation. “‘S your turn.”

“Uh,” Mercury hesitated, stuck on what to say. _Never have I ever had an inter-dimensional hook up_ would probably not go over well. He glanced between the three on the couch, brow furrowed in concentration, then, in a rush, said, “Never have I ever went bankrupt.”

“Good for you,” Ray muttered, sipping, dousing sour memories with the tang of the drink. 

Diesel moved in to steady Pyrite as the well-past-the-point-of-intoxicated man leaned forward and took his own sip, or at least ostensibly did so. He whispered in his ear, “Would you mind if I kissed Pantheon, dearest?”

“Go ‘head,” Pyrite encouraged. He tapped at his arm, a bit impatiently. “Take y’r sship, kitten.”

Once certain the man was no longer in danger of face planting, and after Mercury had waved his hand in enthusiastic encouragement, Diesel eased him back and downed the drink he was due. Johan and Pantheon clinked their glasses together, both glad of their financial situations.

“Doll,” Mercury called out to Pyrite, tapping his shoulder to gain his hazed attention. Even with it, it was clearly barely processed information to Pyrite. “It’s your turn.”

He blinked. “Ah.” He blinked again, trying to comprehend, attempting to pick something that he could probably say in truth. “Um. ‘m. Hav’n’ diff…” Pyrite trailed off, cheeks bright red and feeling wooden almost. His brain was a fog, and his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. “Nnnever… immi-- emi- mig- left the country I was born innn.”

Johan sipped, scowling slightly. 

Pantheon rose a brow and looked toward Diesel, raising his glass a bit. “To Her Majesty?”

“To Her Majesty,” he concurred, lifting his glass to meet his. “May she live long. And, it has come back to me, has it? Never have I ever danced the cordax.”

Pantheon’s eyes went wide, turning a similar shade of purple to a beet, the coloration resting mostly on his ears and cheeks, peeking up his neck.

Aware that eyes were on him, he drank, gracefully, even though the action of doing so might have been just as damning.

Diesel, biting his lower lip slightly in an attempt not to grin like a wolf, leaned forward, rapt. “So you have danced it before? So you _are_ familiar with the choreography?” That blush of his was fascinating, and eye catching, and a sheer delight, much like everything else about the man. “Could I trouble you for a quick lesson?”

“A lesson?” Pantheon managed to question, swallowing again, coughing a bit, as though the drink did not go down well. “What’s there to teach?”

“A man of your talents, I’m sure you could find something to impart to an amateur to improve,” Diesel rumbled, voice low in his chest. That little coughing trick had been cute, as had the way his throat bobbed. “Or, seeing as we’re here for fun, the stakes needn’t be so high. No need to test me after, unless you’d like to?”

“An ameteur? You aren’t suggesting that…” Pantheon seemed both bewildered and flustered, grasping at straws in his mind. He swiped at his face in an attempt to think faster, though it did not help much. “Well, I suppose I could give… one private lesson. I’d have to call Lacie beforehand, to let hir know why I’m held up.”

“I would greatly appreciate that,” he purred. Any and all pretense had flown the coop. His quarry caught, and oh, what a delicious trap this was. Booze aside, Diesel rested his head on his fist as he watched Pantheon. The, now obviously, grecian man swallowed again, and then realized it was his turn. Diesel smirked as he saw the remembrance flash in his eyes. “Yes, it is your turn.”

“Ah. Mhm.” Pantheon adjusted his suit jacket to sit back on his shoulders. Then quietly, he remarked, “Never have I ever been cisgender.”

Diesel met Pantheon’s gaze steadily, the deep honey brown color warm with every assurance he wanted to speak. “I’ll drink to that,” he whispered as he sipped. “That _truly_ doesn’t change my desire for our lesson.” 

“Than’ y’f’r sharin’.” Unlike the last time Pyrite had rallied every last ounce of sobriety left in his body, he managed only to sit up straight for long enough to drink, grimace at the taste, then slump back further down in the chair. Ray sipped at his own drink, chuckling to himself. “‘M hon’r’d.”

Mercury glanced quizzically between his lovers and Pantheon, his confusion staying his hand just for the moment. He watched Johan next, wondering whether he would drink, and hopefully he could glean the meaning of the word then. 

Johan noticed him looking. 

“Ah. W-well, I’m g-guessing you don’t know what that means, yes?” Johan asked gently, a soft trill in his voice. It seemed like there was an after effect to his medication similar to their alcohol, but not quite the same. Mercury nodded, then regretted the action as the room became a closet of vertigo. “Ray is male, yes? I also go with male pronouns. However, this does n-not make me a male. Nor Ray. But Ray identifies with his birth s-sex. That makes him cisgender. I… don’t, not quite. I sometimes d-don’t feel like any gender.”

“And my spouse, Lacie,” Pantheon added, nodding. “She is genderfluid. Mostly she goes with female pronouns, and other times male. Instead of saying ‘his’ or ‘her’, there’s an amalgamation, and we use ‘hir’.”

Lightheaded with the flood of new information, Mercury listened attentively to their explanations, swallowing thickly.

Ray lowered his cup after sipping, and asked, “Is that something that rings a chord in you?”

“I-” He paused, suddenly frustrated with himself for only hearing- and actually listening- to such experiences this late in life. Two sets of hands found his knees (and a little to the left, but the intent was there), resting there comfortably, the weight reassuring. “Yeah. It really does.”

“There’s a lot of different types,” Pantheon remarked with genteelity. “I am transgender, Johan is demigendered, Lacie is genderfluid. Some people, such as myself, have severe dysphoria, even physical reactions. In others it only causes discomfort, and some don’t mind at all.”

“Johan,” Mercury started, then stopped abruptly at the croaking sound of his own voice. “You feel… _some_ what like your birth sex? Not, oh… not-nothing?” He set down the glass and pushed his fingers into his eyes, fighting back the burning. “Like, you feel something?”

“Sometimes… well, s-sometimes I don’t mind,” Johan replied slowly, thinking. “No, not really. Feeling male… no. Being o-okay masculine, yes. Sometimes, no, not at all. B-bluntly, no, I ain’t male. Never felt like it. But m-mostly okay with being masculine.”

“Um. Thank you... ” A short bit of laughter bubbled up in his chest, but soon enough he was crying in earnest, tears forcing their way past his best efforts. “Sorry, I don’t mean to do,” Mercury waved his free hand not currently trying to press his eyes to the back of his skull. When Diesel took that free hand into his own, calming him, he ceased his flailing about for an appropriate word or gesture. Mercury felt something slot into place, and more tears flowed. “I don’t feel like a man. I never have. Just, you know assumed, oh, this was how it was.”

“Well, I also learned very late that there w-were words and identities for people l-like me,” Johan remarked softly. “There’s the nonbinary s-spectrum, where people that don’t fit male or don’t fit female, or don’t fit anythin’ at all. Maybe you’d be c-comfortable with that umbrella t-term. But ya said that y-you never feel like a man, so I’d knock off genderfluid or b-bigender, and p-probably not demigender. What do you think about agender? ‘A’ as in without, just in case if that c-confuses you. It’s when a person just doesn’t have a gender.”

Mercury opened his mouth like a landed fish, breath in, none out, eyes wide. When had his chest felt so tight, or his throat for that matter?

“Dearest?”

“D’r’lin’?”

“I think I’m agender,” he stammered, not properly addressing his lovers’ worry, but, oh, did air come so much easier as soon as he said the statement. He took a deep breath and sobbed. In a second, Diesel was half in his lap, half plastered between his body and the chair, holding him and running a hand through his hair. 

He was loved, despite all odds. There was a word, an identity, that fit. Maybe it would turn out imperfect, maybe further introspection would offer another word, but this one, for this moment, it was absolutely perfect. He was loved, he had an answer to the question of that inherent disjoint he felt-- and he was bawling his eyes out.

“That’s it, sweetie,” Diesel cooed in his ear. “I’m proud of you for realizing this. I love you, no matter.”

“C’n we ge’some water?” Pyrite asked, hope coloring the words his drunk tongue blended together. “I’d geddit bu’... yeah.”

Johan tried to get up, but flopped back down, rubbing his legs. 

“Damn that blasted m-medicine,” he growled, then turned to Ray. “Darlin’, could you g-get us water? I think Pyrite’s dropping out.”

“Of course, honeybee,” Ray kissed his forehead, getting up. He returned with a pitcher of water, a stack of three glasses, and a cup of cherry juice. He drank a bit from the juice, and placed down the other items. “Here you all are.”

After taking another drink from his cherry juice, he swirled his hand into Johan’s tie and yanked him down to kiss him. When he let Johan reel back, he was smirking and lickng his lips. 

“Are… are you d-droppin’ out, Pyrite?” Johan asked quietly, blushing, pouring for him a cup of water and passing it to Diesel.

“Thank you,” he said to Johan, then wasted no time in gingerly bringing it to Mercury’s lips, encouraging his lover to drink. He protested once, enough to claim he had tried to keep hold of the tear-stained, alcohol logged remains of his dignity, before accepting the glass and sipping the water himself.

Pyrite made a noise in the back of his throat, curling up on the heavenly plush seat. 

“I believe that is a yes,” Diesel translated. Mercury nodded at him to show he was alright, allowing Diesel to disentangle from one another, and attempted to also give water to the smaller man, careful not to drown him. Tomorrow morning would be miserable, for all parties most likely, save for maybe Johan, but every bit of water now helped that cause. Once he was satisfied with the amount Pyrite had drank, he stepped back to gauge the others in the room. “Whose turn is it now, then?”

“Mercury’s?” Ray suggested, then thought, “Wait. No. Pantheon just went. So it’s… mine?”

“Yours,” Mercury affirmed. 

“Ah, ok,” Ray smiled while he thought, looking at his spouse. “Never have I ever turned someone on while I was asleep.”

“That’s s-so cheap!” Johan gasped. Ray grinned, his hand wrapping around Johan’s and lifting the man’s cup to his lips. “You son of-”

Ray tilted the glass to make him drink.  
  
“I don’t think you were actually asleep that time,” Mercury mused to Diesel, “but be safe and take a sip anyway.” 

Rolling his eyes, he obeyed, though not without muttering that perhaps Mercury had not yet learnt his lesson. The alcohol clung a bit to his smirking lips and he slowly dragged his tongue across to collect the droplets. “And I wouldn’t be surprised to see you drink, Pantheon.”

“I… I don’t think I will,” Pantheon replied, lowering his cup after a moment. “I’m not considering people that I had no interest in. Which would be the majority. If not all.”

Diesel swallowed his protective urge, rationalizing it. “That stands to reason.”

Johan coughed, finally released from Ray’s onslaught of the medication. His eyes were watering, and he moaned, shivering. Ray’s ears went pink, and he grabbed his cherry juice again, drinking a bit and kissing Johan once more. 

“There, better?” he smirked. 

“No!” Johan rasped, pointing at his cup. “You made me d-drink half o’ it!”

“All’s fair in love, war, and drinking games,” Ray remarked, kissing him once more. 

“Is that so?” Diesel teased. “May I remind Johan that it is his turn, then?”

“Fine,” Johan nodded. Ray kissed his cheeks, cuddling up to him. “N-never have I ever… learned French.”

Ray chuckled, and sipped his drink. 

“Anyone else speak the language of love?” he inquired, using his words as a distraction to slide a hand onto Johan’s knee (which Johan pushed off with an eyeroll).

“Je parle un peu de français,” Mercury fumbled the pronunciation slightly, likely due to the inebriation that he absolutely and vehemently denied had overtaken his senses, but took his due sip. Diesel, meanwhile shook his head. 

“Unless you consider the differences between American and British English, I am monolingual. _Pantheon,_ do you by chance speak Greek?” It was rather forward, but then, subtlety was not his modus operandi when alcohol mixed with his intentions, and he adjusted his collar a bit as he lounged in the chair, crossing his legs over each other.

“I… that wasn’t the question,” Pantheon somehow blurted out, pinkening even more. 

“The anticipation is killing me,” Diesel returned, pantomiming being struck through the heart and covering the wound with his hands. “I simply _must_ have my answer all the same.”

“Naí,” Pantheon softly replied after some thought, deciding that if his name had not given him away already, almost everything he said was quite obviously pointing to such a conclusion. “Miláo elliniká.”

Diesel straightened up abruptly, his attention entirely absorbed in Pantheon’s display. “You truly are a talented man,” he purred.

“I merely was born there,” Pantheon shrugged. “Not much talent to it.”

“Modest as well. I hope you don’t mind if I sing your praises for you then. I wonder what other interesting bits of yourself you keep hidden from the world at large because you think them not worth mentioning?”

Pantheon narrowed his eyes, stepping to the challenge in silent defiance, raising his chin with a heavily disobedient aura. 

Then the phone rang. Johan looked to it, and rose himself, shuffling to the device. 

“Hello, this is Joey Drew,” he said into the receiver, cautiously, then the fear instantly vanished from his face. “Oh! Uncle Bertie, it’s for you. It’s Mx. Benton.”

“Ah.” He glanced at Diesel, sighing internally. Might as well tear this bandage off now. Still, taking the phone, he felt his heart flutter. “Hullo, love.”

Though he was loathe to look away from Pantheon and the way his whole body lightened, buoyant with his own excitement, upon hearing his spouse’s voice over the phone, Diesel glanced over to check on his lovers. 

Mercury’s eyes were still red rimmed, perhaps due to alcohol, but more likely the earlier tears, but he seemed in much greater spirits again.

“Are your legs still all wonky?” Mercury gestured to Johan’s lower body. “Or will that be an overnight thing?”

“It’s already wearing off,” Johan replied. “The pins and needles sensations are n-not so painful to prevent movement. Ray wouldn’t’ve m-made me drink s-so much in one go if it woulda been a detriment.”

Oh, yes, he was back to normal. That stood to reason.

Pyrite, on the other hand, was fast asleep in the armchair, looking much like a child sprawled, with his upper body draped over the arm in a way that could not be doing his spine or ribs any favors. 

He returned his attention to Pantheon briefly, appreciating once more the flush of the man’s cheeks, the smooth swirls of his outfit accentuating his appearance all the more, before listening in on Mercury, in case the man decided to stick his foot in his mouth yet again.

During a lull, the distinct sound of an empty stomach took precedence and drew all eyes to Mercury. Johan turned red, gasping.

“I’m a terrible h-host!” he bemoaned, leaping up, whole body wincing with the jarring wave. Dashing off to the kitchen, he grumbled to himself. “Completely forgetting about the food I m-made. N-now the soup isn't ready and nor the bread, damnit!”

Mercury opened his mouth to call after the tall man and assure him that he was a wonderful host, but Johan had already disappeared before he could even hope to manage it, and returned just as quick, balancing three trays laden with vegetation.

“At least I have the salad b-bar ready,” he smiled, setting down the trays, heading back into the kitchen to retrieve plates and utensils, and another tray with dressings. “H-here we are. Homegrown and m-made. I’m so s-sorry that the soup and bread will be late.”

“We’re the ones who’re imposing on you for longer than expected,” Mercury said in a rush, determined to get the exoneration past his lips before Johan darted away once more. Johan handed him a plate, and gestured at the meal.

“Do y-you really think that it was s-so unexpected?” he asked.  
  
“I mean,” he stammered, flustered by the evidence in his face and hands. Said embarrassment and discombobulation did not prevent him from accepting the plate though. “Apparently not, no. I mean it though, you’re a wonderful host, especially--.” Diesel knew that expression, the twist of his lips and that very familiar pinched brow. It was Mercury’s ‘incoming apology’ expression and neither boded well at the dinner table.

As gently and kindly as he could manage, layering his hand over Mercury’s, Diesel begged him, “Dearest, please eat something other than your foot.”

“Fair enough,” Mercury nodded, and picked out for himself a basic salad. Pantheon rejoined them, and made himself a greek salad, the faintest hint of a smile on his face. Ray also made himself one with completely random ingredients, though his motions were calm and calculated.

Diesel noticed then that only he and Johan, and the heretofore unconscious Pyrite, had yet to make themselves a plate. Offering his thanks, he prepared himself a simple green salad, though upon seeing the olives he indulged in his guilty pleasure and added them.

Johan wrung his wrists, then after a look from Ray, prepared his own meal, simple and laden with many chickpeas. Conversation went on as they ate, some kisses passed to Johan by Ray, soft snores from Pyrite, Diesel making flirtatious comments towards Pantheon.

“Well,” Johan commented when no one made a motion to take more salad. “Let’s s-save some for Pyrite, and I’ll be in the k-kitchen. If you’d like to c-continue playing, go ahead, a-as the food won’t be done f-for another thirty minutes or so.”

Mercury, having learnt his lesson for the moment about appropriate times to dump his apologies, thanked Johan for the trouble and quickly prepared a salad, including chickpeas as well because Diesel had impressed the need for protein often enough, for Pyrite. Johan tapped the plate, and it folded upwards, turning into a square shaped container, somehow. 

“Care to go on a stroll with me while we wait?” Diesel offered to Pantheon. “I don’t think you nor I are still in the mood to drink. And now would be the perfect time for a little dance lesson, don’t you think?”

“Sounds… fine,” Pantheon rose from his spot on the couch, his legs feeling slightly leaden, though movement was unimpaired. “I suppose we can go up to the roof.”


	8. Peacock Courting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title courtesy of Random!

“Sundown should be coming soon,” Diesel noted as they walked. “Though I imagine the view will be gorgeous either way.”

“Damn flirt,” Pantheon muttered. “Are you certain that you’re british?”

Affecting a ridiculously exaggerated and forced received pronunciation accent, Diesel quipped, “Why, bugger me! Tea and crumpets, do forgive me for chatting you up, old chap, but you’re quite the dish and I fancy you. Ah, shall I serenade you with God Save the Queen?” He chuckled to himself, because at least he found himself and his theatrics amusing, then he assured him, in his typical tone, “I flirt only with the best of intentions. On my honor.”

Pantheons’s hand was covering his mouth, a blush resurging onto his cheeks, giggling to himself, trying desperately not to laugh out loud. 

“Your honor might not mean so much if you consider being hatless as bare,” he joked, ruffling the top of the other’s head, then paused as he processed the previous statements as more than their overlay, realizing the underlying intent. He stated, not questioning if he had heard correctly, but more requesting an explanation. “Did you just… did you just call me a dish. You just called me a dish. Oh my heavens. I don’t even know how to react to that.”

“Ideally favourably,” Diesel quipped, but then eased up the jocular tone as he reached up to grasp Pantheon’s hand and brought it to his lips, covering his smirk with the other’s hand, eyes glinting mischievously. “I will not push, if I have misread your reactions.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Pantheon replied, nearly a whisper. His hand turned to take Diesel’s, and he led him up to the roof. There was a small radio there, one that Pantheon turned on, the music slow but upbeat. “I hope it’s to your taste, being that this is a good rhythm for starters.”

Taking the moment to try to grasp the measure of the beat, and trying not to be overcome with the feel of the other man’s hand in his, Diesel murmured, “I trust your judgement. Perhaps you ought to take the lead on this venture?”

Pantheon’s hand lingered, yet slipped from his grasp. He turned to face Diesel, though he did not look at his face, his eyes locked on his feet instead. 

“Pantheon,” Diesel said after a moment spent studying the other man and his posture- bashful, or hesitant? 

“It’s fine, merely haven’t danced this in a while,” Pantheon tried to reassure him. “The dance is more into the physical form, and is… wild. I’m sure you know that, don’t you?”

“I’m aware,” Diesel admitted, feeling his own cheeks flush a tad. “But we don’t necessarily have an audience to impress here. Just us. Whatever is comfortable, I think, would work best. This is meant to be enjoyable, not a chore.”

“Yes, it is,” Pantheon agreed. He began swaying in rhythm. Letting the sounds move him, he rolled out his shoulders. He stepped forward, and then back, emulating drunkenness, assisted by the alcohol within his system. “Just like that. First steps, nice and smooth.”

There was a sort of fluidity to Pantheon’s movements even as he moved about like a drunkard, grace carefully cultivated. Diesel had nearly gotten so distracted in watching the man move that he had nearly forgotten to make note of the actual motions themselves so he could copy them. 

“Ahem,” he cleared his throat, as if that could offset the blush across his cheeks. Then, he followed Pantheon’s lead, though his attempt was clearly that of an amateur. “Quite nice, and quite smooth, yes.”

Pantheon kept the same flowing motion, merely picking up speed as Diesel grew more comfortable in the pace. 

“You doing well?” he questioned the other, adding motions with his arms, up and down, side to side, all at once, still, flowing like oil, light and gliding, easy to follow.

Diesel could not decide what he wanted to stare at more, Patheon’s eyes, or his body and the dance, because all of the above were practically works of art, but he settled for holding his gaze for the moment as they danced. “I am feeling just fine,” he managed to say. “More than fine, in fact. And yourself?”

“Upping the ante,” Pantheon replied and avoided answering at the same time. With a swift twirl, he bent back and under Diesel’s arm as he rose it, emerging on his other side. He grinned at the man, a quick sidestep getting Pantheon looped around Diesel, facing him once more. “Voyeuristic, aren’t you? Why don’t you show me what you can do, then. A fair exchange.”

“I do enjoy a show,” Diesel admitted, then, lowering his voice to little more than a growl, he said, “but I much prefer a challenge.” 

To prove his point, he sashayed even closer, mindful of the beat with every movement of his hips. With smooth, languid motions, he maneuvered his arms overhead in a slow drag and shifted one sleeve off his shoulder on the return trip down, hand trailing along the lines of his side and waist. He glanced briefly to make sure Pantheon was watching, and spotted those bronze eyes locked upon him. Slipping the rest of his arm free, he offset the loose fabric by rolling his hips forward as he dragged it behind his back, arching his spine and exposing his neck as he did so. The jacket eased away from him entirely, held now only in one hand, while the other one teased the button of his vest. 

“Not so much of an amatuer as you so claimed,” Pantheon murmured just above the music, the slightest smile on his lips, eyes semi closed. He stepped out of tune, so fast that it melded into the melody, and tugged on Diesel’s bow tie via its loop, swirling back around him quick as lightning, laughing just a bit, twisting him around with ease. “You’re fun.”

Breathlessly, Diesel obeyed the pull without so much as a hint of resistance, though he was sure he could never even if he wanted to. “Instinct,” he explained once Pantheon had ceased inverting his world and making his heart beat nearly _so_ heavily. “You’re a delight yourself.”

“It is quite primal,” Pantheon accorded, leading Diesel forward with a skip back, dithering with a spin around him once more, and Diesel felt his mouth go dry as he noticed that in that swift motion, Pantheon, who had stood before him with his jacket on, now stood with his dress shirt on the surface. Diesel spun around to glimpse where the man had placed his suit, spotting it on one of the patio chairs, placed neatly. Pantheon’s speed baffled him. A hand was in the loop of his bow once more, turning him back around, Pantheon smiling wide. “Come on, get into the rip tide of the music. Let it pull you into the ocean.”

With that as his final incentive, Diesel reached forward, snaking a hand to his lower back-- or at least attempted to, finding only air and the whiff of basil, dark coffee doused with sugar and cream, and a promise of something far more encompassing than what he could grasp, and he carried through the motion, arm raising. “The riptide has surely taken me already,” he breathed, only the slightest hint of a complaint, a curving smile from Pantheon assuaging it. “I am at the ocean’s mercy entirely, I fear.”

“Then follow the tide,” Pantheon remarked, stepping in time towards him. “Nice and smooth.”

“Nice and smooth,” he echoed, both the words and the footwork. 

“The dance is known as a teasing one,” Pantheon explained, raising a brow. “You mirror those you dance with, and-” he stepped around him, ghosting fast and liquid. “Never touch.”

Diesel’s whole body felt like a live wire, but he agreed to this and it truly was enjoyable. Just a tad frustrating. He very much felt like something small, caught up in Pantheon’s magnetism, as he flowed behind him, keeping pace as each darted closer and pulled back in turn, reminiscent of waves along the shoreline. Offering what was intended to be a look of passion, he possibly only managed to betray his excitement and exhilaration. 

His focus narrowed to the muscle he could see on Pantheon’s form, watching his movements and the gap between their limbs and bodies as it shrank, shrank further, yet never closed, in the interplay of light and shadow on flesh and fabric. The whole world fell away, even the music, the rhythm rewriting that of his heartbeat and breathing. Little did he know, he was being led backwards, so slowly, imperceptible, until his back came to the roof railing. His mind hazy with the thrum of the dance, he could hardly resist as Pantheon pinned his wrists back onto the surface of the banister, not tight, but firm.

All air and coherent thought left Diesel. The skin to skin contact shot through him, shocking a gasp from his lips. Pantheon waited, his face turned marble. Once his tangled, murky thoughts rose out of the miasma that his mind had turned to and he could remember that Pantheon was now within reach, the other man had already retreated, leaving only the kiss of empty air on hypersensitive skin. However, he stood before him, a dark shadow on half his face with the setting sun. 

“You are stunning,” Diesel whispered. “Gorgeous.”

“Cut the flattery, Diesel,” Pantheon’s voice was flat, emotions undetectable, his eyes hard shields of bronze. “Everyone wants something. And what the hell is it you want from me?”

The abrupt tonal shift dragged him out of the fog quicker than lightning. With wide eyes, deep honey tones meeting Pantheon’s unyielding metallic ones, he confessed, “A kiss.” Then, not breaking eye contact, he continued, “But only what you are comfortable giving. If that isn't in purview of that, I have enjoyed myself immensely.”

The bronze melted a bit, softening. His shoulders, so tense, slowly eased. 

In a literal blink of Diesel’s eyes, Pantheon appeared before him, eyes fluttering shut before a gentle pressure came to the slightly shorter man’s lips.

Pantheon did not merely smell of sugared coffee, he tasted of it too, faintly, an olive like tinge to his lips. 

“May I kiss you again?” Diesel inquired, voice barely above a whisper. Pantheon blinked slowly, nodding at the same speed, making no move to come closer or further.

Diesel reached for Pantheon’s face, thumb brushing along his cheekbones, before he leaned in and delicately pressed a second kiss to his lips. 

“Still want more?” Pantheon breathed.

“But of course.” Then, smiling mere centimeters from Pantheon, lips tingling with the desire to kiss him again, he added, “But I also believe it’s your lead, teacher.”

“Oh, don’t use that term,” Pantheon groaned, but there was a hint of a smile on his face. “Association with Plato is much more preferable.”

Tilting his head, he kissed him once more, this time more than a few seconds, and as he pulled back he added an additional quick peck.

“More?” he asked again. Breathless and not trusting his voice, Diesel nodded. “Well then, show what you’ve learned.”

“Gladly,” Diesel managed to say past the rasp of his excitement. “Your hair is quite fetching. The sun tinges it, catches on the.. swoopiness.” He flushed abruptly, embarrassed by the fact his vocabulary failed him, but Pantheon smiled, prompting him to ask, “May I touch it?”

“You may,” Pantheon began, though held up a hand to slow him. “If this goes further, I need to place some rules. Understand?”

“Completely.”

“No roughhousing,” he began, “No fast motions, no pinning.”

Diesel considered that last rule. Then, a lascivious smirk walked across his lips. “How about _you_ pinning _me_? Tell me that is still acceptable. This is quite enjoyable.”

Pantheon was not much taller than him, but with Diesel’s back leaning against the banister, they both certainly felt it. Pantheon’s hand returned to one of his wrists, pressing it back onto the polished wood.

“Is it ‘acceptable’?” Pantheon murmured in his ear, voice tugging on something innate within Diesel’s chest. “Hm?”

“I believe-- I mean,” Diesel held back a small whimper, then slowly trailed his free hand along Pantheon’s back, dragging his fingers, until he found his neck. “You’ve far exceeded expectations.” 

His hand crept upward from his neck to his hair, fingers brushing through the soft locks. Pantheon shivered with the touch, and Diesel paused, his smile growing just a tad. Pulling the man closer, he kissed him again. And another time, longer, the taste and sensation lingering like capsaicin on the tongue. He pulled away long enough to breathe, when he remembered that he and probably not Pantheon, were human, but the scant few centimeters between their lips that allowed him to drag in air-- air tinged with the intoxicating scent of the other man-- were like anathema. Desperately, he brought their mouths together once more, kissing him like his heart would stop if he were to stop smothering the man in osculation. He scrounged around in his brain for the last bit of intelligence and sapience not drowned in fervent need. 

“Vivamus,” he stammered a bit, but soon fell into the rhythm of the poem, or at least his mostly accurate rendition. “Meus amor, atque amemus, rumores senus severiorum omnes unium aestimemus assis….” 

And there went his minimal coherency, defenestrated by the fond smile Pantheon offered him.

“Um,” Diesel said, very eloquently, earning a quiet snort. “You’re too lovely to behold. It’s quite unsporting.” 

To prove his point, he kissed the man again, because really, what use were some words of a long dead poet when poetry made flesh was before him, within reach of his yearning lips?

Against those lips, Pantheon sighed softly, giving Diesel’s ensnared wrist a light squeeze. Whenever the man moved back, Pantheon nuzzled his cheek, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth, smiling just as soft as his eyes became.

“You are handsome,” Diesel whispered, then kissed him- where, it mattered not, just that he did. Each sentence, he ended with a small peck wherever he could find the room. “You are a delight. You are intelligent. You are frustratingly adorable. You are irresistible. You are loving and a wonder to watch as you fawn over your spouse. You are amazing, and lovely. You truly are the pinnacle of… well, the most pleasure of all this human and primal and physical. The epitome of hedonism.” 

“Whatever.” He could hardly finish his sentence as Pantheon’s hand, the one not holding his wrist, grasped his collar, pushing him back on the banister. “Do you mean by that.”

He swallowed, abruptly aware of the fact he did not know how strong Pantheon was until this moment. “Uh,” he stammered, again, hoping that he was not crossing some unseen boundary, though it seemed he already had. “I mean that you are the incarnation of all things pleasurable in this world and probably the next?”

There was a strange look on Pantheon’s face, a melding of, sharp spite, bitter anger, and beneath it all, a pained wistfulness. His grip changed, did not loosen or tighten, but changed.

“Pantheon?” Diesel breathed. “I am very sorry I went too far. Are you alright?”

“I… I’m fine,” Pantheon managed to start breathing again. “I…. I apologize for grabbing you.”

Stepping back, he lowered Diesel back to solid ground, his cheeks colored with embarrassment and shame. He said again, hoarsely, “Sorry. Is there something I can do to make it up?”

“Just for my own knowledge, and to avoid incidents like this in the future,” Diesel decidedly did not focus then on what the word future held, “where did I overstep? I can’t avoid hurting you if I am unaware.”

“Please… don’t use that word,” Pantheon murmured. “I’m not Hedone. Don’t use that word.”

Realization hit like a sack of bricks, and one after another. “Oh, I am… _so_ sorry. I didn’t intend to--” It was technically deadnaming, was it not? “-- remind you of that. I understand now, and I apologize for the distress I caused in being careless with my words.”

“It’s perfectly reasonable,” Pantheon assured him. “You had no idea. I overreacted.”

“No broken bones, no torn fabric,” Diesel catalogued, grinning at the man. “I think we are just fine. I mean, I did suspect you were some sort of god or related person, so in a sense, the blame is mine for not thinking over my word choice better.”

“Suspect,” Pantheon snorted, the color in his cheeks becoming more natural. “Was it when I had mentioned Eros, perhaps? I should not have, but the alcohol was getting to my head.”

“I mean, there were quite a few hints, right up until that reveal, but, yes, that confirmed my suspicions.” Diesel stole a brief kiss, Pantheon inhaling sharply as he planted it right at the corner of his mouth. “But your reaction to my question concerning the cordax was absolutely priceless.”

“Was it now?” Pantheon questioned in a breath, falling back into relaxation. “When you answer that, you can inform me what I can do to repair my awful behavior.”

“The reparations include another kiss,” Diesel teased.

Pantheon leaned close, Diesel’s eyes closing in preparation. Instead of a kiss, there was the ghosting of air, questioning, “Anything else?”

“May I call you Bertie?” he asked. There was air passing before his lips, tickling through his moustache.

“Only if I can do the same,” Pantheon purred, sending a shiver down Diesel’s back.

After only one harsh swallow where his inhibitions slid down into his belly like warm alcohol, Diesel complied with a soft, “Certainly.”

“Mm, alright then, Bertie,” Pantheon smiled, unseen. He kissed the man’s upper lip, then lower, and then both. He hummed in satisfaction, then whispered against the other’s mouth, Diesel certainly able to feel Pantheon’s face heat up, “Mind exploring the mouth of a god?”

“To boldly go…” Diesel gave up on English and simply kissed Pantheon. That was far more enjoyable than attempting some sort of pop culture reference that the man would potentially not even get. He did _exactly_ as Pantheon had suggested, his remaining hand finding itself in the other man’s hair again because, really, there were no better places for it to be than in contact with Pantheon. Of course, the same went for his mouth, tenfold. Pantheon hummed again, smiling even as Diesel kissed him. He pulled back to let the man breathe. Diesel gasped soon as he had the air to spare, “That was brilliant.” 

“Really, now, was it?” Pantheon grinned. “Tell me what you really thought, love.”

“I think you’re fishing for compliments,” Diesel joked. “Compliments I am _more_ than happy to provide, I’ll remind you. You are incredibly skilled, and in tune with and attentive to your partner’s desires, and you are delicious, can I say that without being weird? You taste of coffee and olives, but in a pleasant way. You are considerate and that translates to even now. You’re handsome. You have the most delightful minute twitch of your lips when you’re trying to fight a smile and then you just surrender to the expression, like tucking in to bed, comforting and familiar, and your smile, sweetness, is bright enough to illuminate the stars.”

Pantheon’s grin grew by the moment.

“A very cute display,” he remarked, tugging Diesel close with a twist of the wrist. “Though I was referring to what you thought about _this_.”

With that, he brought him back to his mouth, kissing deep and passionate, reminiscent of the kiss they had just shared, but this time Pantheon taking a much more dominant role rather than merely allowing Diesel free reign.

“Well?” he asked with a damning smirk as he pulled away.

He allowed himself to be manhandled, especially when the reward was to be closer to the other man, to taste him, feel his presence all the more. “I do aim to please,” Diesel remarked, more than slightly dazed and lightheaded. “Are you… _pleased_ , thus far, Bertie?”

“Mm. Not quite. Perhaps,” Pantheon, still smiling, leaned a bit to kiss his temple, just a tad lower to whisper to him. “I could be appeased.”

“What would please you, sweetness? What would excite you and soothe your need?” 

“Mayhaps the sacrifice of your mouth to mine,” Pantheon sighed dramatically, though his eyes sparkled in a goading manner. “I really don’t know if it would be enough, though, love.”

Diesel pouted. “I think you are breathtaking and taking full advantage of a man unable to think clearly.” A moment passed and a grin he was helpless to prevent broke his feigned affront. “Please continue to do so.”

“Your lexicon claims that you can think quite well and clearly,” he chuckled. “Though I suppose I can give a mortal some delights. Would you like that?”

“Did I stutter when I asked you to continue to use me?”

“Asked?” Pantheon narrowed his twinkling eyes. “You’re being rather demanding, hm. And why should I?”

“Because I asked very nicely,” Diesel felt the world turn around him, breathless. “And I am losing my ability to speak my native tongue.”

“Aw,” he crooned, a finger under Diesel’s chin to lift it, the hand holding his wrist shifting around to take his hand. “Since you seem so very sweet about it all, I think I will indulge you, so long as you remember your lessons.”

He tilted his head down to kiss him again, chaste and simple.

Diesel matched his pressure, his speed, teasingly soft brushes of his lips along Pantheon’s, then moving toward his jaw. “Is that so?” he asked, breath ghosting across his skin. 

“Mm. You’ve learned quite well, I’d say,” he replied, eyes closed and allowing the man to trail along his face. “I hope I was a good teacher.”

Instead of gracing that with a proper response, Diesel drew back and nearly, but did not, return his lips to Pantheon’s again, bypassing them entirely in favor of the man’s other cheek. Catching the other man’s gaze, he questioned, “Were you?”

“Was I?” Pantheon echoed, hand guiding Diesel back to his lips, gentle enough to allow him to move away. “Would you like to show me what you’ve learned?”

“With pleasure.” Diesel took full advantage of the little bit of slack given to him and offered only a quick kiss on the lips, disobeying the man’s gentle insistence, and moved his way toward his neck instead, grazing the joining of his throat and shoulder.

“Ah, that’s lovely, dearest Diesel,” Pantheon’s hand slipped onto his shoulder, and dragged down to his wrist, holding both hands in his grasp now. “You’re doing delightful.”

“ _You_ are a sheer delight,” Diesel returned, whining only the slightest bit about the injustice of his hands being caught in Pantheon’s steady, warm hold. With no other recourse, he sought out the man’s mouth and kissed him again. “You are captivating.” And again. “Enchanting.” And again. “Mesmerizing.” 

If this was to be a war of attrition, Diesel would be the siege engine. “Sweetheart, lovely Pantheon,” he whispered. “Allow me my hands back, please.”

“And what dastardly things do you plan on doing with them?” Pantheon questioned, giving said hands a light squeeze, pulling them downwards to bend Diesel along with his limbs. “Why do you feel the need to have them? They are lovely hands, and mine to hold.”

“I am certain of that,” Diesel whined a bit. His knees were turning to water and he caved to the slightest command, verbal or otherwise. “But you are lovely as well, and I would very much like to show that.”

Perhaps to show his insistence, or maybe desperation would be a better word, he nuzzled into Pantheon's neck and lapped at the skin there. “Please,” he all but begged, breathing onto the moistened skin, Pantheon shivering.

“I think I shall not concede,” he replied slowly, his grip on Diesel’s hands even and unyielding, a light squeeze on each. 

“Is that so?” Diesel queried, testing the hold. Finding it fast, he quirked his brow. “Very well then.”

With a bit of maneuvering, shimmying them despite the barrier of his clothing and the scant few inches between their torsos, he managed to free his arms. That is to say, his second set of arms. The hem of his shirt rode up, exposing a bit of his stomach to the crisp air of dusk, gooseflesh exploding across the sensitive skin and sending a shiver through his entire body.

“Oh…” Pantheon breathed, eyes wide as he took in the extraordinary extra limbs. “Astounding.”

That was not exactly the response he had expected when it concerned his aberration from typical human anatomy, but even while buzzed, eventually sense reasserted itself. Of course a god would not be shocked by such displays. That did mean, however, he was free to take full advantage of the way the man stared at his arms like they were something pleasing to look at, of his distraction. It took considerable restraint not to hurriedly grasp the man who so tormented and taunted him, but Diesel managed to reach out for Pantheon’s back, a light, easily broken hug as he kissed his mouth with more urgency than the earlier pecks and teasing brushes. Pantheon hummed, pulling him closer, though he still was in a gentle flow. Diesel trailed his secondary hands to the gripping of his main ones by Pantheon, pulling on them a bit just to show his upper hand. Still, Pantheon stuck to the gentle beat.

Diesel, at first, had trouble realigning himself with that same rhythm, both due to the alcohol and his inexperience with his secondary set of arms, but soon enough found it again, much to Pantheon’s satisfaction. Moving his (upper set of) hands in a silent plea for permission, he moved them from Pantheon’s back to his arm and face, fingers splayed across his jawline. He pulled back for a moment and caught his breath, forced himself to slow, though he could not stop himself from laying his thumb on Pantheon’s lower lip, nor his eyes from staring into his.

“I really can’t sing your praises enough,” Diesel murmured. The set of hands still bound _burned_ like they were aflame, his need to touch infecting his bloodstream and both pairs readily. “There aren’t enough words. There isn’t enough time. I can’t speak and adore you enough. I cannot worship your body enough.”

“To buy time, so I may worship yours as well, then… would you come home with me tonight?” Pantheon asked him softly, eyes flashing and hopeful. “I’m sure that both of your loves will remain here for the night, and we can return in the morning.”

“You paint a tempting picture.” He laughed, unable to attempt any sort of debonair prevarication. Vaguely he recognized the flattery Pantheon laid upon him, that he considered his body (and both sets of arms) worth the praise, but the majority of his mind and body was more so concerned with keeping skin-to-skin contact and feeling Pantheon’s touch throughout the exchange. “I would love to.”

The slightest bit of space between their bodies was apparently also an invitation for the chill air, especially since his earlier excitement had set his body nearly aflame. The stark differential in temperatures set him off shivering, and not due to Pantheon’s touch. He wrapped his secondary arms about his stomach once more, trying to hold his warmth within. 

“Regretting stripping off your jacket?” Pantheon inquired.

Diesel smirked, catching his bronze gaze with his honey brown ones, and delighting in the fact both of them had pupils blown wide with excitement. “It was _far_ too constricting for our activities.” 

“I think we’ve lingered for longer than half an hour. Shall we head back inside?”

“Lead the way, _Bertie._ ”

Shaking his head minutely, Pantheon instead draped his jacket over Diesel’s shoulders, somewhat masking the extra arms with the greater size, and he tossed Diesel’s coat over his own shoulder.

The shorter man scoffed, “ _Really_?”

“Oh, shall I take it back?” 

“Absolutely not.” Diesel preened with Pantheon’s jacket, lifting his chin and moving back out of reach. He paused to pose, showing off, then moved to turn off the radio. “I look quite fetching. It’d be a crime to impede fashion.”

Laughing, Pantheon sidled up beside him once more, an arm over his shoulder, and Diesel edged back into the man’s touch, a bit coy and unexpectedly hesitant considering how risque and provocative their earlier interaction was. Diesel clearly felt each touch, somehow all the more exciting than even before, and he suppressed a shiver.

“Shall we get you where it’s warm?” Pantheon inquired with a smile, gesturing back the way they came with a nod, the arm over Diesel’s shoulders making a light pressure, a soft one armed hug. “Soup will help you warm up as well.”

Taking the risk, Diesel reached up to layer his hand over Pantheon’s and squeezed before, in a reversal of their earlier positions, he led him back inside Johan and Ray’s place.

As they were descending, they could hear Ray and Mercury’s conversation. As evidenced by the slurring to one voice, and the cursing in the other, and the volume of both, neither man had stopped the drinking game.

“‘Ey, man, Ray, Henry, Hen-ray, we got… We gots a connection, you an’ I.”

“Ah hell, what the fuck ye talkin’ aboot?”

“I love you.”

“You wot, ye arse? You’re goddamn drunk.”

“I’m no’ drunk, y’r drunk… we’re both drun’ard bas’ards.”

Pantheon and Diesel shared an amused glance on the stairs. Ray had, at some point, decided that the couch was no place for a true Scotsman, and elected to take up residence on the floor, with his arms clasped over his chest, holding onto his glass protectively. Mercury was partially there, sprawled on the loveseat with one leg dangling over the arm and the other planted on the floor, and his head dangerously close to falling off the edge.

In the doorway to the kitchen, Johan stood with one of his hands covering his mouth, the other holding a camcorder. His whole body trembled as he held back his amusement, mouth open and chest shaking with silent laughter, but he managed to keep the recording somewhat level and trained on the two drunk men.

‘They have been going at this for ten minutes,’ he signed to Pantheon, who snickered, albeit a bit loudly, and he led Diesel to the couch, then leaned to whisper into his ear. 

“Johan told me they’ve been doing this for ten minutes,” he chuckled lowly. “When Ray gets drunk, you can tell who his mother is.”

“And a drunken Mercury professes his love for the human race,” Diesel returned, just as quietly.

“But Ray, Ray, you,” Mercury spoke with great pomp and ceremony, even as his head finally made the journey over the edge of the cushion and he started looking at Ray upside down. “You are _me_ but, y’know, bett--be’er, and, and you are a right _asshole_ sometimes but I love you, man, accept my affectsiations.”

“Fine, fuck you,” Ray grumbled, on the floor, his glass sloshing. “Shite. Love ya, too I guess. Buuuuut. Nev’r have I ever been called Mercury, damnit.”

Nearly choking himself by not bothering to try to adjust his neck before the attempt, Mercury took his sip. “ _Ooooh_ ,” he mocked, pitching his voice higher despite the fact they both had nearly the same voice, though Ray’s had two slight accents, one not so light at the moment, “ _me name is Ray an’ I’m a wee bastard_. Bah. I don’t love you anymore. Mean to me, I’m just tryin’ to love.”

“Did you take yer fockinnnn’ sip?”

Mercury paused, eyeing the glass, trying to gauge how much alcohol was left in it but could hardly focus on anything, let alone something right in front of his face. “Um. ‘M not… Sure. Don’t think so.” Obligingly, he drank a bit more, only to gasp in the middle of his swallow, choking. When he stopped coughing, he (tried to) point an accusatory finger at Ray, aiming more at the couch where Diesel and Pantheon sat. “I _did_ you fuckin’ prick. Never have I ever been a bas’ard. Wait.” As his mind processed, his eyes trailed up to where his arm pointed, his vision taking in the two park makers. “Ohh, hey, Berts. The Berts are back!”

His gaze landed on Diesel’s shoulders and the jacket and arm slung around them that was, while eccentric enough, not his usual one. In fact, it looked like Pantheon’s. “Hey. Hey, Bertrum, mine Bertrum, Dees, Diesel baby, how’s dying of the gaytality feel?” 

“We’ll see who is dying come tomorrow morning,” Diesel warned, though he grinned at his lover’s antics. A squeak left him as Pantheon’s arm slid down his back, tugging him close around his waist. Mercury hardly noticed.

“Psssh. I’ll be fiiiiine. Did you two smoochie?”

“Did you take your sip, Merc?” Ray asked from the floor. “Fer bein’ a bas’ard? ‘Cuz I did.”

Mercury automatically put the glass to his lips before what remained of his higher cognitive function reasserted itself. “Yer a prick,” he snapped, but there was no heat behind the words, nor any true malice behind the middle finger he displayed, yet again at the couch rather than Ray, whose eyes trailed along the painted ceiling, this month a replica of starry night. Mercury debated if he was a bastard for another few seconds, then took a wounded sip with a scowl, sliding down the loveseat he rested on.

Johan came out from the kitchen, bearing two steaming bowls of tomato soup, miniature loaves of garlic bread on the side of each. He put the tray in front of the two, then picked up Pyrite without too much struggle. 

“Takin’ him to the guest room,” he told the two sober (more or less) men. “Then headin’ to my own room. You two have a g-good night.”

“That is… likely for the best,” Diesel acknowledged. “Thank you for this wonderful night and dinner.”

That left Mercury, who was slipping closer and closer to full unconsciousness with each slow blink. He mumbled something that might have been a thank you, or another profession of love, or possibly not even English. Then he shut his eyes and the relaxation of the absolutely shit-faced drunk overcame him.

“Merc?” Ray said after a moment. The man replied with a soft snore. Ray grinned sloppily, raising his arms best he could, whispering a “Yesss.”

Diesel chuckled then started to shift away from Pantheon’s touch, though it was nearly physically painful to, especially as Pantheon’s hold tightened. “I can take him,” he offered to Ray, who was already pulling himself up to stand. “That _is_ my drunken fool.”

“Ray can handle him, love,” Pantheon murmured against his neck, nuzzling him.

That was fighting dirty. Diesel tried to reign in his shuddering gasp and was only slightly successful. He squirmed a bit, not even sure himself if he was trying to release Pantheon’s hold or nudge in closer. “He’s deadweight and heavy,” he protested, even as the other man’s facial hair tickled his overly sensitive neck. “Ah, Pan, dear, that--”

Ray, locking eyes with Diesel, lifted his brow and Mercury, both in one relatively steady motion, with no sign of tipping over whatsoever. “Dumbass, I can handle ‘im, see.”

“Oh,” Diesel said, struck dumb. His hand found Pantheon’s and he twined their fingers together on his lap as he settled in closer to the man. “Do carry on, dear.”

“Like so?” Pantheon questioned, pulling him onto his lap, getting a gasp - and another when he picked up his knees, bouncing him a bit. “Carry on like this?”

“You cheeky--” Diesel cut off with a third gasp, not in least because there was hardly anything to be done for his situation. Yes, he was truly at the man’s mercy. Diesel leaned a little, pressing his back against Pantheon’s chest. “Tally ho and all that.”

Pantheon’s hands gently trailed up Diesel’s torso, over his shoulders and down his arms. After his right hand wrapped over Diesel’s right wrist, he slid his free hand over Diesel’s stomach, feeling over the extra arms beneath the shirt. With a few quick tugs, he undid the shirt’s bottom buttons, deftly snatching the bare wrists beneath. Pantheon managed to grasp onto Diesel’s last free hand with a quick thumb, grinning behind his back as he had him fully incapacitated. Once he was adjusted and after a brief power struggle over the freedom of Diesel’s hands, he settled, and guided Diesel’s hand to his meal, making him lift a spoonful of soup. 

“Come along, love, have a bite,” Pantheon urged right behind his ear, Diesel able to feel his grin against his tendons. “Johan is an excellent cook. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.”

Even if Johan were the worst chef across the globe, he would gladly taste the meal, because on his honor, the taste-- or perhaps the scent, intoxicating, heady -- nearly flattened him. Diesel _knew_ he knew how to speak. The mouth opened, the diaphragm forced air through the larynx, the taut cords vibrated and _words_ happened. That was how words happened. Why were they not happening. Instead, he felt himself melting at his touch, shivering at the feel of the man’s warm breath on the shell of his ear. His mouth opened, air slipping out in a guttural moan, yet no words came out, and he allowed himself to be manhandled and coaxed into swallowing a mouthful of soup.

“Good, isn't it, love?” Pantheon asked, resting his chin on the other’s shoulder, guiding a new spoonful to his own mouth, smiling. He pressed his neck to his shoulder, making sure he could feel the vibrations in his throat. “Mm.” 

Diesel had died. He died of alcohol and possibly ink poisoning and somehow managed to claw his way into heaven. This was the only possible explanation. In a desperate final attempt to salvage his control over the situation (futile though it was), Diesel noted, “You sound like you are truly enjoying this moment.”

“How could I not?” Pantheon hummed, giving Diesel another bite to eat, having dipped some of the bread into the soup. “I have a delicious meal before me and a handsome man on my lap, what’s there to not enjoy?”

Pantheon had him there. “Impeccable logic,” he croaked. “Absolutely. Positively. Oh... You are such a tease and a sadist, picking on poor, defenseless me.” 

The benefit, beyond the tactile pleasure, of Pantheon so close was that he could turn his head and place a kiss on his cheek with minimal effort. 

“Please keep it up, sweetness,” he purred. “This has been nothing but a night to remember.”

And Pantheon did so, eventually both finishing each of their own meals, Pantheon shifting Diesel on his lap to sit sideways, leaning around to press his mouth to Diesel’s, licking along his lips for him.

At this angle, it was much easier to wind his upper arms around Pantheon’s neck and deepen the kiss, and Diesel wasted no time whatsoever in taking advantage of that ability, even as one of his lower arms balanced them and the other pulled Pantheon’s middle closer to his own. Sadly, in order to speak he had to break the kiss momentarily. “Say,” he panted, “the night is wearing on, isn’t it?”

“Off to my home, then, Mr. Piedmont?” Pantheon asked sweetly, with a voice that betrayed nothing beyond an innocuous offer, but the way he bounced Diesel on his lap once more spoke much more.

The motion at least made it easier to rationalize the weakness and tremors to his voice as anything other than discomposure as he replied, “But of course, Mr. Piedmont.”

“You wouldn’t mind a walk, would you?” Pantheon stood, setting Diesel down on his wobbly knees, supporting him with a nigh possessive arm around his waist. “Or would you prefer I carry you to my cottage?”

Diesel pretended to consider the solidity of his knees (of which there was basically none) and the firm press of Pantheon’s arm bolstering his failing ability to walk. “Sadly, you’ve got me quite out of sorts with your earlier antics,” he explained imperiously. “I may trip, and neither of us would like that. I’ve already fallen once because of you. As the one responsible for my condition, it’s only just that you carry me.”

“Alright, dear,” Pantheon smiled, bending to sweep the man off his feet, holding him bridal style. “Comfortable there, love?”

Diesel quickly realized he had not thought this out carefully enough. He squeaked his assent, then blinked because, holy heavens, the man was strong. Stronger than he expected, obviously, though perhaps that was what happened when you were a god? Godly strength? There was his final proof. His head spun and all conscious thought narrowed to burrowing closer in Pantheon’s arms. His surprisingly strong arms.

Instead of heading downstairs, Pantheon went back up to the roof. 

“Since you already know my dirty little secret,” Pantheon chuckled, grinning down at him, taking a powerful step up to the banister. “I think that indulging you in it would be no problem, yes? Maybe you’ll like this little thing. Shows we have more in common than at first glance.”

“Indulging in _what_ , exactly?” he asked, though, oh, did he suspect. He gripped Pantheon’s bicep, testing the muscle there, finding it similar to steel, and somewhat distracting himself inadvertently. “You’re not going to throw me down, are you?” 

“Not at all, love,” Pantheon smiled, stepping off the banister, into thin air. Diesel yelped, eyes firmly open in shock, even as he fought the urge to close them tight. Yet the ground did not rush towards them, no, they seemed to glide across the surface of the land, a rhythm to their motions, barely noticeable, an imperceptible up and down. “Having fun?”

“This is…” Diesel paused to gape and gawk at everything, uncaring whether he looked ridiculous. The sky overhead, looking all the more vast due to their proximity, the ground below that swayed like riding upon a horse or elephant, and _Pantheon_ , who looked utterly…. “Breathtaking. Why do you ever walk anywhere? This is beyond impressive.”

And it was. He could feel his heartbeat pounding, pushing scorching hot blood through his whole body, and he wondered if Pantheon could feel it as well. 

“Walking calms my mind,” Pantheon replied. Starlike wings pulsed behind him, not flapping, but somehow emulating an engine, pulling air in and propelling them forwards. “Flying is a treat, special for my loves. Which, I will tell you, in all my years, I can count those on one hand.” 

They glided over an expanse, Pantheon tilting to list them downwards, a slow spiral back to earth, landing a few feet from the door of a modest cottage. Diesel’s stomach did somersaults once back on solid ground and he leaned into Pantheon for stability and further contact. He walked forwards as he landed, light and skipping steps to adjust to gravity. There was a note on the door, ‘out on a stroll’ signed with an odd glyph. 

“Perfect,” Pantheon preened, smiling, the grin glinting in the late light. He let them in with no trouble, setting down Diesel as he closed the door with the heel of his foot, then pressed the man to the door, earning a breathless gasp, one hand on two of Diesel’s, the other resting on his side. “Is this pinning… ‘acceptable’?”

Arching into the touch, raising his chin to bare his neck, Diesel tried his level best to keep his voice from wavering as he challenged, “You can do much better than that, dear.”

“Why, I certainly can,” Pantheon scoffed, eyeing the neck that Diesel so exposed. Without effort, he lifted the man, one arm holding him to his body, his weight holding him against the door, leg between the other man’s to give him support as his toes left the ground. No ado proceeded his nipping attack to Diesel’s throat, head tilted to provide the best bites. “Mm. This good, love?”

His brain shut down in bursts with each graze of teeth across his flesh. “Ah,” he gasped, “that, ah, is much, yes, much better. Progress.”

Pantheon said nothing, only grinned wider. Nimbly with his lips, he undid Diesel’s bow tie, even though he could have easily released the other’s hands, and then the topmost button of his shirt with the same method. He lifted Diesel a bit more, Diesel’s only free hand trembling on the back of his neck, and bit down on his collarbone, opening his mouth wider to bite at more skin.

Utterly helpless, coming apart and well aware of every fraying fiber of his self control, Diesel whined, breathing hitching at the bite. “Do it,” he encouraged him breathlessly, not even remotely certain or aware of what he was asking, but entirely sure that he _wanted_ it, as strong as the human need for air. “Do whatever, please.”

“I’m not sure you’d want what I could do,” Pantheon murmured, air chilling the bite he placed. “Though I can….”

With that, he returned to the bite, adding pressure slowly, Diesel’s breathing picking up until he saw stars and an almost scream tore from his throat. He could feel teeth against the metal in his skin, a tingling electric feeling pulsing outwards, just like Pantheon’s wings in air. 

The aborted scream turned to a breathy moan. “What did you…” It was rather obvious what Pantheon had done, and Diesel shocked himself by being excited at the prospect and the results instead of worried in the slightest, and it made him moan again, that this man turned everything on its head, and he loved him for it. “Oh, _hell_ , that is… you’ve outdone yourself.” 

He shifted a bit, shivers running along each and every nerve ending in his body. Pantheon’s teeth were still in his neck, and it was a dizzying, intoxicating thought, extrapolated by the chuckle that shimmered through him.

“Need to lay down a bit, love?” Pantheon questioned, still holding the man up, licking a bit up his neck to kiss the bottom of his chin, then back down to kiss at the bit of blood that came from the small wound. “It would help the spinning.”

Diesel managed to reply, even if weakly, “Join me?”

“I wouldn’t leave you alone, not while I’ve got you in my hands,” Pantheon assured him, a nearly possessive glint in his eyes. He carried him over to the rather small couch, clearly meant for sitting and reading upon, not laying, though he placed him down so the backs of his knees were over the armrest, going on top of him, a hand going over the side of his face. “Very handsome.”

Mustering up his fading coherency, the last vestiges of his mind not overloaded - the feel of Pantheon’s callouses, his scent all over the place, his eyes and lips and everything so close, the tingling of his skin wherever anything touched him be it fabric or flesh, the slightly tacky sensation of blood and Pantheon’s tongue - Diesel craned his neck to follow the touch, arched his back into the feeling of his hold, pressed his face to his hand. One of his hands came to Pantheon’s on his face, holding it in place. The two lower ones gripped the man’s sides, resisting the urge to pull him onto himself all the more. He bit down on his lower lip and stared up at Pantheon through half lidded lashes. _Keep going_ , he wanted to say. Instead, he fumbled with his own body and attempted to get it to cooperate as he tried to reach out for Pantheon’s neck to drag him closer. Pantheon leaned down slowly to the other’s lips, smiling with a bit of pink on his teeth that was quickly licked away.

“Let me have a bite there,” he lilted, thumb swiping along the lower line of his lip.

“Only a bite?” Diesel quipped with a short-lived burst of confidence. In doing so, he released his lip from his teeth, giving Pantheon a moment to swoop down on it, pulling it into his mouth with his own lips and nibbling along it.

And there went the final little shred of his self control, chased away by teeth on sensitive flesh. A deep, throaty moan escaped him, rumbling in his chest and pooling warmth in his belly. Pantheon pulled away slowly, Diesel’s lip itching and tingling as it was released. The door opened, a broad shouldered being stepping in. 

Unable to gather himself to do much else, Diesel tried to split his already harried focus between the man atop him and the newcomer. He let out a low whine. “Pan,” he rasped. “C- _Co_ mpany.”

“Oh, so ya finally picked up someone you like,” they remarked, looking down at him, strutting over with a powerful step, Diesel’s eyes widening as he took in the extraordinarily handsome man in front of them. “Aw, Bertie, you got ‘im all riled up. Is such a cutie for me?”

“Uh,” Diesel’s mind went blank with possibilities and the implications of those words. The abrupt mental image accompanying it was enough to knock the wind from his lungs. It also shocked his system, much like a hard reboot or a heavy smack to an on-the-fritz television. “One handsome fellow to another, just who are _you_ , lovely?”

“Benny Lacton,” he smirked, then added, “Bertrum. Mind telling me your nickname, beau?”

The stranger, Benny, _knew_ about parallel and perpendicular universes, which was.. interesting. Huh. Diesel stammered, “Diesel. A pleasure, Benny.” He tried to cross his legs and control the wild flush across his cheeks to no avail, instead only managing to bring more attention to his flustered state written clear on his face, especially with Pantheon straddling him still. “Um, I… I fear I’m at a loss here.”

“Oh, no, no losses here,” Benny replied, a hand going to Diesel’s ankle, thumb going over the skin the showed between his pants and socks, the other on Pantheon’s shoulder. “That is, if you don’t mind a plus one. Oh, those arms are gorgeous. There must be extra muscles on the back to make up for the tendons.”

His mouth went dry. He was hardly unaccustomed to such propositions, but not typically with handsome strangers and not while so riled up, and not with such lovely remarks on the appendages he so often hid. The thought shot like a flare straight into his stomach, hot and flashing, pulsing for attention. “I-” Diesel fell back on a tried and true method and let out a coy mewl, unable to do much else. “I believe I can accommodate another partner.”

“Ain’t that sweet,” Benny’s drawl came closer as he walked over to where Diesel’s head rested. “Hold ‘im up for me a bit, darlin’?”

“Certainly,” Pantheon hummed, hands pressing to Diesel’s back to lift him a bit, appeasing the stretch with a kiss, then returned him down, head now resting on Benny’s knees. “He is sweet.”

“Oh, is he?” Benny questioned. “His lips as sweet as he is?”

“More than,” Diesel boasted, the sudden cockiness striking like a bolt of lightning, the impetus being the man-handling, the angle of his head in Benny’s lap and Pantheon still atop him.

“Would you like me to be the judge of that?” Benny inquired, soft yet rough fingers catching on Diesel’s lips. 

“Be my guest.” Then, his voice lowering somewhat as Benny performed such delightfully teasing ministrations and Diesel darted his tongue out to catch said exploring fingers, he added, “ _Please_ do, my dear.” 

“Seems a bit spicy to be sweet,” Benny commented, though a hand came to the back of Diesel’s head and lifted it up, about to join their lips. Diesel panted through his nose, breathing hard and fast, and he could feel Benny’s other hand sliding down his chest, fiddling with the buttons of his vest the whole way. 

“Spice and sweet balance,” Diesel protested, biting back a cry of impatience, his top arms trembling with the exertion of holding himself up for Benny. “They balance. In only the most tantalizing way.”

“Do they?” Benny whispered, and round lips pressed to Diesel’s, the hand that was trailing down his chest paused atop his stomach, the broad hand’s splayed fingers spanning from the inner curve of one hip to the other, but Diesel could hardly focus on that, no, he focused on the way Benny’s mouth pressed to his own, the way he could feel Pantheon lean back to watch with amusement, his secondary hands forced to trail down to the sides of his legs. When Benny released him from their kiss, he fell back onto the man’s lap, breath struggling to come into his lungs. “Hm, I’d say they do, but not tantalizing. More… cute and tasty.”

“Which can still-- is still-- oh dear.” He writhed a bit this time, trying to illicit another response, another touch, hips bucking (held down by Pantheon) and head rolling back (stopped by Benny’s legs), desperate for either to give him what he desired. Diesel groaned and begged, “Yes, spice and sweet isn’t as grand and all but you are both driving me _mad_. It’s lovely but _I am going insane._ ”

“What does your cousin say about madness, darlin’?” Benny chuckled. 

“That it’s a heavenly bliss,” Pantheon stated, his thumbs making circles right beside where Benny’s fingertips ended. “Shall we drive dear Diesel into it?”

“I’ll tell you what you can drive me into,” Diesel grunted, the gentleman in him left behind somewhere on Johan’s roof. He saw Benny and Pantheon look at each other, Pantheon’s cheeks coloring more slightly. Benny’s brow rose in a question of ‘are you sure?’ even as a hand dipped lower, some of Benny’s curly hair falling over a muscular shoulder as the arm attached moved slowly, so mind rendingly slow.

His mind ground to a halt like a spanner in the cogs of some great machine, mouth falling open and his words and reason both stolen the lower the hand drifted, a chain on his cognition linked to the sensation. “You-- oh. You-- you two are--” Haltingly, Diesel whimpered, “Planning. Conniving. Gorgeous, the both of you, but what-- are you planning?” 

“How does getting you in bed sound?” Benny murmured, fingers teasing through short hair. Diesel released another throaty moan. “Sound good?”

“Heavenly,” he answered, voice left raw by his current state. 

“Alright then baby,” Benny drawled, standing slowly and turning to face them, picking them both up with ease, Pantheon sitting over Diesel’s groin and creating a remarkable pressure, Diesel covering his mouth as he groaned. “What was that?”

“It’s either he’s brought a gun or is happy to see two adoring strangers,” Pantheon joked, shifting a bit just to tease. “Of course, if it’s the former….”

“Then we’ll just have to wreak him first,” Benny finished for him, setting them down on the bed, patting him down in a show of checking for weapons. “Mind getting his vest off for me, darlin’?”

“Please do,” Diesel pleaded, mind barely able to keep up with the situation at this point, Pantheon’s nimble hands undoing his vest. They already had wrecked him, honestly, anything further was simply a formality that he would appreciate all the same. Benny leaned over him to kiss Pantheon, and Diesel watched as the man melted.

Overworked neurons and synapses fired and connected the dots between the little bit of evidence he could glean. Pantheon thought of very few people in such a capacity, he himself had admitted as much, so, perhaps…? Furrowing his brow, he questioned, “Lacie?”

The couple pulled apart, chocolate brown eyes meeting honey ones. 

“That’s Mix Benton, to you,” Benny remarked, and then Diesel remembered that here, their Lacie was genderfluid, and by hell, he was gay for hir. “Better snatch some obedience.”

“Of course, Mx. Benton,” Diesel purred. He hooked his lower hands’ thumbs into his waistband and shimmied his pants a little lower, exposing a strip of flesh usually covered by multiple layers, the air cool against skin so unaccustomed to contact, leaning back on his upper arms with a positively promiscuous expression on his face. “It’s well worth it, promise. I can make up for that lapse readily.”

Pantheon moved off him, pulling Diesel over himself, arms around his shoulders and each leg on either side, kissing the back of his neck. Benny came above him, lifting his legs, tossing his knees onto hir shoulders, and making him inhale sharp and quick, breath hitching. Acutely aware of the vulnerability of his position, even with an extra set of arms, and the strength of both who had their hands all over him and their mouths too and— Diesel whimpered at how deliciously helpless he was to change his situation. Not that he would ever want to. 

“Now, what would you like?” Benny asked, voice sweet like iced tea, cool and refreshing and demanding another gulp. Hir hands pulled on his pants a bit more, eyes flashing and fastened on Diesel’s. “There’s a few ways we can make you feel good, real good.”

“Do I have to choose?” Diesel complained. 

“‘Fraid so, love,” Pantheon murmured, kissing his neck. “Though I’m certain Benny will make sure you’re satisfied.”

Humming contentedly, Diesel dared, “I don’t want to know my own name after all is said and done. Can you manage that? The how’s and the why’s are…” Pantheon’s breathing at his neck made him pause, reaching up to wrap him into his lower arms, pulling him just a tad closer, and the feel of Benton’s muscles made him shudder in excitement, free hands clenching into the sheets with anticipation. “Not so important to me.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Benny did not deliver. Benny over-delivered, to the point Diesel forgot his own language and fell into babbling, let alone his own name. Diesel fell asleep limp, boneless and sore in the best possible ways, surrounded by warm bodies, the lingering remembrance of every touch carrying him to sleep. 

***

A hazy awakening came to him, too early for the birds to be singing, but nonetheless Pantheon had risen, stretching a bit before creeping over Diesel to sandwich himself between the man and his spouse, kissing each of their cheeks.

“I’d wish you a good morning but I have my doubts,” Diesel mumbled, his voice left raspy and rough with the exertion of the previous night.

“It’s just after five,” Pantheon murmured, cuddling against him, a hand rubbing his chest gently. “I’ve already showered, and you should do so as well soon.”

Shutting his eyes, Diesel hummed and reached up to hold Pantheon’s hand. “I’m liable to face plant. Last night was…” His eyes cracked open. Last night was delightful, but also considerably skewed, insofar as he could recall. Which, admittedly was not everything, but he had a suspicion. “Did you enjoy yourself as well? Didn’t mean to, ah, steal the spotlight as it were.”

“Ah, I… I did,” Pantheon avoided his eyes. “Though perhaps not in the same way you did.”

“How do you mean?” Diesel asked. He wanted to lean forward and try to catch the other man’s gaze, but the angle and his newfound location as one half of a Pantheon sandwich made that next to impossible. “I just would like to understand.”

“I am, well,” Pantheon sighed, seeming more than a little guilty. “I’m asexual. I don’t have sexual attraction or desire. I enjoyed being with you, last night, even without… that aspect. I hope that you don’t think I was leading you on….”

“Bert gets all full of himself an’ rambunctious when he’s drunk,” Benton’s voice came in, a low drawl as he poked Pantheon’s nose. “Mm. I’m feelin’ Benny today.”

There were so many directions to take both men’s commentary. “It’s not leading me on when I assumed,” Diesel began, though a bit of color rose in his cheeks at the memory of just how ‘rambunctious’ the night had gotten. “To clarify that point. Also...” He shifted in bed a little, not enough to dislodge Pantheon, but enough to recognize his own body’s overwhelmed condition. “You’re not the only one feeling Benny today.”

“Oh, you’re gonna be feelin’ me for a week at least, and if not, ya best come back and I’ll give you a renewal,” Benny cooly remarked, patting Diesel’s knee. Diesel, suddenly feeling very warm, got up in bed a bit, recognizing Pantheon’s remark of a shower being in order. Benny read his expression with ease. “Bathroom’s out of the room and down Bert’s hall, on the left and then right. Y’know what? Bertie, you better help him there, not only so he doesn’t get lost, but also ‘cause he hasn’t tested his legs yet.”

“That’s fair,” Diesel grunted. Acutely aware of the fact he had nothing but his own hands to hide his increasing blush, he cleared his throat and forced his body to move, swinging his legs over the edge. A hot burning crept down them both, flowing up his back, and thus through his shoulders. A soft groan, one even he could not tell whether it came from pleasure or pain, escaped his lips before he could bite down on it. “Oh boy.”

“Want me to carry you again?” Pantheon offered, sliding off the bed. Benny took the opportunity to starfish on the mattress, making Pantheon smile and kiss the back of hir head. “It would be no trouble to do so, love.”

“As tempting as that sounds,” Diesel still clearly remembered the man’s muscles under his fingers feeling more like coiled metal than human musculature. “I’d like to try first.” 

With that, he managed to stand, though this position awoke a half dozen other delightful aches than recumbency had. Through sheer prideful resolve, he kept upright and started walking, albeit very slowly. Pantheon’s arm snaked around his waist, though far more shy than the night before, more for assistance than an insistent tug. 

“You standing alright?” he questioned, a concerned note in his voice. “Would you like to try to walk a bit?”

Diesel huffed, more frustrated with himself than the question, and nodded. A second passed as he mulled over his situation and Pantheon’s arm about him. Quietly, he requested, “Do you mind if I leaned on you a tad?” 

“Of course you may,” Pantheon said, giving him a gentle squeeze, yet despite the tenderness, it still sent a jolt through Diesel’s body. Pantheon gave him a glance, but said nothing.

Diesel returned the glance with a grateful smile. Reigning in his baser instinct for the moment, best as he could manage, he shifted some of his weight to press against Pantheon, and perhaps it was merely the placebo effect at play, but in that way they shuffled the remarkably less shameful than expected walk of shame toward the bathroom. 

“I think I have it handled from here,” he said. “But, I just remembered my clothes are probably still on your bedroom floor.” 

“On my armchair in Benny’s room, actually,” Pantheon replied. “I’ll get them for you.”

“Thank you.” 

“No problem at all, love,” Pantheon assured him, then slipped down the hall back to the room they had emerged from. 

Alone now, Diesel allowed himself to drag his hand down his face, his heartbeat unexpectedly fast just hearing a fully sober Pantheon calling him love twice now, before taking in the amenities of their surprisingly modern bathroom, as the two owners of the cottage were, afterall, engineers in their own rights. 

It was just a shower. He had taken plenty of them, and plenty of them also in similar degrees of soreness, though admittedly not to this extent. Diesel started the water running and cleaned the salt and sweat of the previous night from his skin, careful of the raw, clear impression of Pantheon’s teeth on his neck. Even only gingerly running his fingers over the open bite mark sent fresh shivers up his spine, his lower arms wrapping around his stomach to quench the chill. He still had not gotten over the electric sensation and doubted he would ever. 

Once he finished with the necessary tasks, he allowed himself a moment to luxuriate in the hot water, feeling knots loosen and granting him an excuse for the red coloring his cheeks. At some point, the door had opened minutely and shut, clearly Pantheon dropping off his clothes, making a light smile cross Diesel’s face. His typical routine would have to wait, considering the lack of his own product and that he would far more prefer spending the time with the other two rather than primping. 

After stepping out and drying off, he fumbled with his facial hair, putting forth only just enough effort to look more presentable, then dressed quickly. Everything was accounted for, pants, waistcoat, button down shirt and even his undershirt, save for his hat and jacket. 

He cleaned up any disorder he had made in his shower and felt less of a sheer ache when he bent over, so he figured that his body was through complaining about the utterly, mind-blowingly wonderful events of last night. Adjusting his bowtie as he walked out, he glanced about for Pantheon, and not finding him, followed instead the sound of conversation down the hall and into the dining room, more of a breakfast nook. Benny was sitting in a work suit, chatting with Pantheon, both holding cups of coffee.

“There you are, Diesel,” Pantheon smiled, sending butterflies flapping in his stomach. “How do you like your coffee, and which type of grounds do you prefer?”

“Hello, dears,” Diesel said with what had to be a stupid grin. “Uh, dark, with sugar, please.”

“How many spoons?” was Pantheon’s next question, naturally.

In his defense, he had the sight of two gorgeous (mostly) humans before him. “T-Two spoons, thank you,” he clarified. Swallowing down his sudden shyness and hesitation, he strode in with as confident as sway to his gait as could be attempted and sat down in an empty seat. “Has anyone seen my hat by any chance?”

A fresh coffee was set before him, and Pantheon colored a tad, though sat beside him. 

“You left it by Johan’s, love,” he reminded him. “Remember?”

Diesel’s composure fled. Eyebrows shooting up and cheeks immediately turning scarlet, he cried, “I did? Ugh, of all the stupid things to overlook.”

Benny snorted, hir feet on the table and hir chair leaning back. “I just plowed you into high heaven last night, and you’re gettin’ your pants all twisted in a bunch over ya cap.”

“You could have buggered me with the hat,” Diesel waved his hand in hir direction, pointedly not denying hir words, “and it would still feel less obscene than walking about without it.”

“We can try that some other time,” Benny chuckled. “Though I’d bet you’d change your mind.”

Worrying his lower lip, and even that was somewhat sore, teased so often by teeth, Diesel suggested, “Speaking of ‘some other time’, we should discuss what this was and what that means going forward.”

“It’s up to you,” Pantheon replied, nervously. “Though I must admit… I’m not just plain asexual. I’m also sex repulsed. I can’t, won’t, have sex.”

“Did I make you uncomfortable at all last night?” Diesel asked. He assumed, and hoped, that Pantheon would speak up if a boundary had been crossed, such as when Diesel had mentioned hedonism, but he wanted to double check.

“You did not,” Pantheon assured him, swallowing a bit of his coffee. “I greatly enjoyed being with you and Benny. Like I said before, just differently. And… I would like us to be able to enjoy such a night again.”

His brief worry assuaged, Diesel sipped at the coffee and considered his next words carefully, eying the both of them as he let the sweetness fill his mouth. “I would as well,” he agreed. “I would like to discuss it further with Mercury and Pyrite, however, and establish boundaries taking everyone’s desires and feelings into account.”

“That’s agreeable,” Pantheon nodded, relieved. Benny got up to put hir empty cup into the sink, kissing hir husband as he did so.

“Do you two want me to come along?” he asked. “I don’t think I’d be of so much importance to the conversation, seein’ as I’m comfortable as long as everyone else is comfortable.”

“I think in time, Mercury might ask to meet with you, just to know more about you,” Diesel explained after a long moment of thought and a couple more sips. “But not yet, no.”

“Sounds fine by me,” Benny grinned, then gave Pantheon a small kiss. He rose a brow, looking towards the other man. “Want one, too?”

“I was beginning to feel left out,” he answered with a faux pout that quickly broke into a smirk. Benny leaned over and pressed a slightly more heated kiss to Diesel’s lips, a small reminder. Pantheon seemed amused by Diesel’s flush.

“Never mind,” Diesel breathed, “with this being potentially a constant thing. I’ll be rendered a blushing mess.”

“And what’s wrong with that, cutie?” Benny questioned, then returned to Pantheon’s mouth, Diesel watching the man squirm as the kiss matched and possibly surpassed the passion of the previous one. Benny grinned, gesturing to the now hot pink Pantheon. “I think it’s rather endearin’, don’t ya?”

Hiding his own blush in the mug, Diesel simply nodded, though his eyes did not leave either of them, watching and delighting in the change overtaken the man. A firm hand came to the back of his head, Benny moving him and Pantheon together, centimeters apart.

“Come on you two, I can’t be the only one spreadin’ around some sweetness,” Benny drawled, smirking like a cheshire cat. “I’ve seen the way you two were all over each other last night.”

“Um,” was all Pantheon managed to say, hands gripping the edge of his seat, eyes wide. “Uh.”

“Good point,” Diesel growled. He set down the mug of coffee as it was only in the way at this point and closed the miniscule gap between their mouths, reveling in the low whimper that tremored through Pantheon.

Emboldened, he reached around and began carding his fingers through Pantheon’s hair, occasionally using the positioning of his hand as leverage to deepen the kiss, assisted by Benny. Pantheon wriggled, gasped, squeaked, clung to the other’s shirt, but could not escape or resist the kiss.

“Isn’t that nice?” Benny inquired with a low voice that shot pure adrenaline into them both. “Looks like you’re both havin’ a good time.”

In lieu of a verbal response more coherent than another lusty growl which elicited another gasp from Pantheon, Diesel tried to find and grab hold of Benny without disengaging from Pantheon. The man chuckled and obliged him, kneeling down and scratching the back of Diesel’s neck gently, enough to be felt.

Enough to be felt, but not enough to satisfy. At least this way, he knew precisely where the other man was and his earlier blind flailing was no longer necessary. Cupping Benny’s chin now, he broke away from Pantheon for only a moment, long enough to press a scorching hot kiss to hir lips, some measure of repayment for last night and this morning, before he kissed Pantheon again, trailing down his brow, cheek, jaw, even as Benny kissed Pantheon’s hairline, ear, and neck.

“I’m going to perish,” Pantheon sputtered, his hands releasing their death grip on Diesel’s shirt only to come back tighter. “I can’t, oh heavens, Benny, Diesel, oh hell… more please, more.”

“Hmmm, Benny, what do you think?”

“Oh god, Diesel, don’t do this to me.”

“What do you think, darlin’? I think he’s cute like this.”

“Benny, dearest, _please_.”

“Do you hear something, sweetness? The most pleasing little whimpers, I think they were.” Taking pity on him, or perhaps the opposite, Diesel kissed the shell of Pantheon’s ear before subtly teasing it between his teeth.

“Damnit, damnit, damnit,” Pantheon almost howled, writhing. “For heaven’s sake, stop teasing me so miserably!”

Diesel paused appraising the flustered man and enjoying every second of it. “Well,” he said, more to Benny than Pantheon, who paused as well, garnering a keen from Pantheon. “You heard the man, as clear as I. No more teasing.”

With that and a devilish smirk, he leaned back for all of a split second before redoubling his efforts, flicking his tongue out to taste the man’s lip. With an effort and red face, Pantheon managed to pull himself up, and swung a leg over Diesel’s legs, on his lap, gripping the sides of his neck to draw him into a messy and frenzied kiss.

Between kisses, he breathed, “We should… tease you… far more often.”

Pantheon did not reply, breaking away to drag Benny to his lips, leaning over Diesel’s shoulder, leaving his own neck and shoulder rather exposed. Of course, Diesel wasted no time, lips finding the heady pulse of Pantheon’s carotid artery, and his jaw, and his throat, and his shoulder… it was something of a personal challenge, to see if he could get Pantheon to cry out from his ministrations before Benny could, and so he nipped at the man’s collarbone and traced the reddened flesh with his tongue. Of course, neither would have any way of knowing, but he indulged in it anyways, until Benny swooped in and around to kiss Diesel hirself, giving Pantheon a moment to breathe, though not for long, as when Benny pulled back, he put Pantheon back by Diesel’s lips, the shorter man hungrily latching to Pantheon’s mouth.

“It’s far too early for this,” Pantheon sucked in a breath in a brief moment he managed to pull away, guided back by Benny, who was kissing the back of Diesel’s neck, murmuring quiet encouragements and tips of what got Pantheon swooning. “Oh, love, loves, mmm, I fear I may pass out!”

“You won’t, baby,” Benny assured with a dark chuckle, tugging him back onto Diesel, a moan vibrating from Pantheon’s lips to his. “I know ya. You’re gonna make yourself feel every bit of what’s goin’ on. Early, says the man who wakes up at four. Nip his tongue for me, Diesel.”

Instead of responding verbally, he did so with fervent obedience, capturing the man’s tongue between his teeth and tugging slightly, teasingly, the light and gentle scrap of teeth. Benny’s breath across the back of his neck set off goosebumps.

“Go ahead, darlin’,” Benny remarked, the brush of hir body, fingers, causing him to stiffen and moan, biting down harder than intended. Sweetness burst in his mouth, smooth, liquid caramel. 

“Oh,” Diesel gasped at the realization, jerking back only enough to speak. “Calling you ‘sweetie’ is more accurate than I thought!”

“Damn you,” Pantheon managed to say between pants, a bit of his blood still on his tongue, a strange light glinting off (or from) it. His eyes were hazy, full of dazed love.

Diesel found himself wanting to see that face more and more often. The arrangement, if it came to fruition, would be hell on his productivity, but by God would it be a worthwhile use of his time on earth. “Can’t do that,” he protested. “I’m already inhumanly blessed to be here.”

“He’s out of it, darlin’,” Benny muttered to him, smiling. “You can kiss him as much as you’d like.”

He needed no further encouragement, though this time around the kisses were softer, gentler, and far, far slower. Like honey, or caramel, dripping affection on the man, peppering his face. Happy sighs slipped from the man, arms wrapping around them both. It was easy, gentle, and so very natural. If Diesel was not sure about keeping this up before, he was certain now, he was certain he wanted it, no, desperately needed it. Though he greatly doubted he would face much if any opposition to the suggestion, in all honesty, all he needed to do would be to point to this man’s expression, right here, and limp pointedly to demonstrate the absolute wreckage that Benny had reduced him to, and Mercury and Pyrite would agree, this was a necessity, an imperative for a fulfilled life.

“Hmm, Pantheon, dear, do you mind shifting about? I’d like to drag Benny here into the middle and muss up that smart outfit a tad.”

“What?” Benny asked, amused.

Pantheon obliged, shifting back (only now Diesel realized that his limp would be extrapolated by this, but he could care less at this point). Diesel wrapped an arm around Benny, pulling hir onto his lap as well.

“Wonderful,” Diesel groaned, holding fast onto hir with one hand and coaxing Pantheon’s face over hir shoulder with the other. “There we go. Proper English breakfast for you, lovely, english muffin and all.”

“With sesame seeds and motor oil, I presume,” Benny laughed, kissing the top of Pantheon’s head. “Fantastic. Very lovely.”

“Quite,” Diesel agreed before taking the plunge to taste hir neck as well. He had had a taste last night, of course, but he could hardly get enough then and certainly not now. Slipping one hand along Benny’s front, he tried to ease hir work shirt off to expose more to touch, to kiss, to taste, while leaving the task of distracting hir with sweet kisses to Pantheon. The man on the opposite end of the so-called Benny sandwich worked a tender miracle, ensnaring Benny’s mouth, drawing hir head back to expose more flesh, neck a smooth column. 

Pantheon, seeming to regain some semblance of mental presence after being so turned about and devastated by affection earlier, helped unfasten the offending shirt from behind with one hand, the other keeping Benny’s mouth well within reach. 

“Hey now, boys,” Benny seemed to scold, though there was a smile on hir lips. “Ya can ask if you want a show.”

“Forgive me,” Diesel punctuated the apology with a kiss and a stilling of said hands. “May we see more of you, dear?”

“You’re gonna have to earn that, baby,” he grinned, shoving Diesel back with the force of hir retaliatory kiss. Pantheon, quite dazed, kissed down Benny’s arm, holding hir hand with a look of simple adoration. “Mmm, but you’re comin’ close, I’d say.”

Diesel did not allow himself to be forced back- instead, Benny, like the night previous, was simply an overwhelming force and his attempts to resist were futile efforts. With a much slower pace, he returned the kiss, as teasingly slowly as he could stand, in an effort to draw that force forward once more. 

“I know you can pick up that pace, Diesel,” he remarked onto his mouth. Pantheon’s free hand trailed to catch one of Diesel’s, the man’s face lighting up with the joy of holding both of his loves’ hands. “If you really wanna see, then you’re gonna have to go a bit faster.”

He almost made a smart mouthed comment, but the trouble with speaking was that it took time away from kissing. Dutifully, Diesel abandoned his ruse and gave up his willpower, instead darting a tongue forward, tasting the after tang coffee, sweet southern style tea and something he could not place. The obvious solution would be to kiss harder, faster, and deeper, still with one arm outstretched to keep hold of Pantheon’s hand, lacing their fingers together. What was that taste? It was familiar, and yet, quite literally, on the tip of his tongue. As a man who prided himself on his impeccable and discerning taste, it was infuriating. 

  
Shifting in place slightly, adjusting his legs to better situated Benny in his lap, he broke away for a moment, and only for a few scant centimeters, and studied through half-lidded eyes the handsome enigma before him.

“What’s the matter, darlin’?” Benny questioned, then turned to press a kiss to Pantheon’s cheek, earning a squeak and the man hiding his face against hir shoulder. “Cat got ya tongue?”

With Benny’s attention on Pantheon for the moment, Diesel laid his free hand on Benny’s knee and gently brushed circles against the skin there, and answered the question by stealing a kiss at hir temple, then where jaw and neck joined, then down further the smooth column of skin. To prove that he in fact still had his tongue, he licked at hir skin lightly and breathed across the wetness. 

“You tell me,” he whispered, then reacquainted his lips to hir body. “Might I leave a mark here?”

“I suppose ya can,” he flashed a smile. Pantheon was cuddling against them, watching without comment, but comfortable on his perch. 

Humming in contentment and anticipation, he teased a bit of teeth on Benny’s neck and then covered the growing darkness with his lips. As he sucked at the flesh there, it struck him, what the taste was. Soft, delicate in nature, a strong contrast to the bold vivacy that emanated from Benny’s every action and word, the slightly tartness and acidic bite of citrus, hiding behind that of sweet tea and lingering coffee. Not breaking the hold, he allowed his teeth to graze the forming hickey. Only after he was certain of the taste of Benny’s skin, clean and rustic, did he pull back, eye his handiwork and place a parting kiss to the mark, and resumed his efforts on hir mouth. 

_Oh, yes, that was it,_ he thought in a haze. But, measure twice and cut once did not need only apply to building machines and carpentry. Oh no, any craftsman worth his salt (and Diesel most certainly was) thoroughly tested his measure of a situation before finishing. Tasting Benny again, every flavor a delicious medley that would surely pair better with wine and olives than the moonshine he had imbibed the night before, Diesel lost himself and whimpered when he meant to growl. His lower set of arms trembled with the desire to reach out and feel them both.

“Whatever’s the matter, Diesel?” Pantheon asked, softly reaching for his face. Benny pulled back to kiss Pantheon again. “You seem a bit overwhelmed, would you like us to stop?”

“Not necessarily,” he prevaricated. His mind stuttered slowly, the greater proportion of it occupied with possibilities and potential. If he used his lower set of arms, he could hold both of Benny’s legs, drag hir closer, and still have hands left to toy with Pantheon, to tilt his head this way and that and stroke his jaw and neck. But most people did not have two sets of arms. “I would like to show you both something before we continue.”

“Oh?” Benny rose a brow, a thumb stroking Diesel’s cheekbone. “You know how much we like lil’ things like this. A lot.”

“It’s not a little thing.” Diesel leaned into hir touch all the same, relishing in the contact and grateful Pantheon had not withdrawn yet, then acted upon his words before his resolve could falter. The motions felt vaguely familiar as he squirmed enough to free his arms from the tempting press of a body against his front, but he ignored the sense of deja vu in favor of trailing his newly freed hands along Benny’s other leg and Pantheon’s hand. The best explanations were often physical demonstration, after all.

“Ohhh, darlin’, you don't need to act so shy with those,” Benny smiled gently, putting hir hand on the one he cautiously revealed. “You had ‘em out last night, remember? Woulda been a real shame to get your clothes all messy and wrinkled, ya know.”

That explained the deja vu, and if he stopped to think about it he realized that there were very few places to hide extra limbs while naked. All that hesitation, for nothing. “I see,” Diesel mumbled. “Well then.” Mind made up, he grinned, wolfish, and in one flowing and quick motion gripped Benny’s thighs with his lower arms and snatched up Pantheon’s hands with the other set, gaining noises of surprise from both fellows, just as he wanted to, neither hold particularly tight or restricting. 

“Would you mind if I made good use of them then?” he asked, squeezing each to demonstrate his intent. 

Pantheon choked on a gasp, nodding, Benny murmuring, “Yes, please do.”

Given the all clear, Diesel yanked Benny closer, a bit more into his lap, hir hands snapping to his shoulders from the fast adjustment, and he momentarily paused to nuzzle hir forearm in an apology. No pinning, he recalled, so he removed his hands from Pantheon’s wrists and instead beckoned the man closer, his fingers curling under his chin, while the other teased the collar of his shirt, lightly brushing his throat.

Benny leaned forward, wrapping hir arms over his shoulders, pressed flush to him. 

“I need a break,” he whispered. “But leave your hands on, oh, that feels nice.” 

Diesel kissed the side of hir head, then looked over at Pantheon, who watched him like Diesel was a lion stalking his prey. In a way, he was.

“Now, what to do with you?” Diesel mused. Pantheon’s breathing hitched, visibly. Diesel watched the motion in full, adoring the way his breathing seemed to run through his throat, fluid and swirling, just like everything about him. “Perhaps you would allow me to mark you the same you marked me, or perhaps a love bite to match Benny’s?”

“Do whatever you’d like,” Pantheon replied softly. “I’m at your mercy, dear Diesel.”

Abruptly dizzy with the degree of trust Pantheon offered him with just a few words, Diesel slowed, the earlier all encompassing heat and passion lowering to a simmer, a low and steady boil. Running his hands down Pantheon’s arm, he easily drew the man closer, planting kiss after kiss as he did so, pocketing small sounds as a reward for his actions. First on his hand, then the inside of his wrist, then his inner elbow, and he paused briefly on his impressively firm bicep, as if considering to tear the clothes that covered it with his teeth. After smiling up at Pantheon, he continued on, kissing the cloth up to his shoulder, the man’s bowtie already undone, and shirt open just enough for skin to show. He did not withdraw his lips, though he nipped gently at the skin and delighted in every goosebump that arose, and much like as he did with Benny, he made sure to memorize Pantheon’s taste as he left his mark on the skin there. He barely let go, just enough to free his mouth to speak and eye the growing discoloration. 

“You know, olives are my favorite food.”

“You’re a bastard,” Pantheon breathed, trying to get in enough air as his heart thundered. “Perverted damn bastard.”

“Aw, I didn’t even ask for some olive oil yet for _lubrication_ purposes,” Diesel remarked, grinning, sliding one hand over Pantheon’s back and under his belt. “Do you know where I can get some? Perhaps your ichor will fulfill that purpose.”

“You son of a bitch!”

Not yet satisfied with the potential purpling, and struggling not to lose his battle with his giggles, he resumed deepening the love mark, scraping his teeth across skin made all the more sensitive due to the broken capillaries. The vibrant, rich violet tones from the second attempt were much more visually appealing than the faint plum of before, and he pressed a final kiss to the abused flesh. 

“I may be a son of a bitch,” he acknowledged, “but you are a sheer delight.”

“Not as delightful as your kisses, I’m afraid,” Pantheon sighed, leaning against Benny, who still lay atop Diesel happily. “Perhaps we should allow Benny some time to recover, dear?” 

“Mm.” Benny slipped off, stretching with a yawn. “Bert was right. Too early for me. I’ll be on the couch if ya need me at all. You two have fun.”

His lap felt quite empty and he felt the loss of body heat keenly once Benny left and his arms felt, for the first time in a while, redundant, so he reached out for Pantheon to fill them.

“While he catches hir breath and rests after such an eventful night and morning, do you mind if we check in with my other loves?” Diesel chuckled. “Also, my hat. It’s what...” 

A quick search of the room saw that while dawn had broke while the three of them had their fun, the time was only a few minutes past six.

“Oh, it’s indeed still quite early. My mistake.” Diesel, reversing their positions from the night previous at Johan’s, drew Pantheon into his lap. “This son of a bitch is going to carry on now. Good day.”

He punctuated the bland statement with a passionate kiss at Pantheon’s neck and an immediate continuation of before, two of his arms wrapped about the other man (under his chest and about his waist, mindful of the no pinning rule) and one hand in his hair and the other on his thigh. Pantheon wrapped him in his own arms, sighing and leaning his head forward in an attempt to catch the other’s lips.

Realizing the intent, though through a fog born of skinship and an intoxicating taste, Diesel matched his movements, allowing him access to his mouth with a trembling moan. 

Somehow despite having twice the hands as he was born with and accustomed to, he felt woefully underprepared to adequately feel Pantheon. The barrier of clothing was an insistent annoyance as well, but he made due, exploring every bit he was permitted, now in the clear light of day and without being alcohol addled. 

“You are lovely,” Diesel breathed, and intended to continue lavishing praises but lacked the self restraint to keep from immediately kissing him once more. Pantheon tried to keep up, but clearly Benny was right: alcohol made the man looser and faster. Still, he managed to kiss back with skill and passion, moving to press into every touch.

Leaning back in the chair as far as he could without risking overturning them both or crushing Pantheon’s wrists against the backing, he guided Pantheon to a sort of semi-recumbent position against this chest, one hand (regretfully) leaving behind warm flesh to brace them both in the chair. Diesel knew, by way of object permeance, that the world did not cease to exist as he kissed the man in his arms, but it certainly felt that way. Each second felt equal parts too short and drawn out, but only in the best possible way. 

“I…” Pantheon pulled back, gasping, then dove back, whining with the contact. “I love you.”

Diesel blinked twice, altogether much warmer than before, something comfortable and tender sprouting in his chest.

“Is it weird?” Pantheon asked in a breathless laugh, kissing him again. “We hardly know each other at all, but I feel like I’ve known you for ages and ages, and, oh, I love you, Diesel.”

“I--” He paused only a moment to think, to ensure he was not saying the words to avoid an awkward conversation or hurt feelings, and he found he genuinely and vehemently shared the same sentiment. Diesel thought of the comfort he felt, the warmth in his chest that swelled as he tried to answer, “I love you as well, Pantheon. Truly.”

In nearly any other situation, were this a typical hook up, or even a relatively new relationship, he would not so readily say the words. As it was, this was far from typical and his idea of normal took a swan dive off Johan’s rooftop after he revealed his arms, or maybe when he first felt the stirring of desire and the initiative to pursue Pantheon.

Speaking of Pantheon and of pursuing him, Diesel joked, “You aren’t escaping my kisses by distracting me, dear.” To prove his point, he kissed him deeply, teeth on his lip before tracing the indentations with his tongue. 

Any words of praise and admiration Diesel might have said or additional explanation for his adoration, he swallowed as he covered Pantheon in kisses, one hand idly toying with the hair nearest his neck as he did so, brushing against the skin on his nape and thoroughly enjoying every shiver he garnered that way. Shifting his attention from Pantheon’s lips, he drifted to the corner of his mouth, his jaw, then paused to peck at his cheek on his way up to his temple. 

“Shall I continue?” Diesel wondered aloud, taking note of the man’s deep blush and trying to gauge his partner’s comfort. “Or shall we enjoy the morning?”

“It’s… it’s up to you,” Pantheon replied, meeting their lips once more. “Oh, Diesel, you’re fantastic. Simply wonderful.”

Diesel hummed into the kiss and, when Pantheon broke it to speak, settled into a more relaxed position, keeping him flush against him but lessening the strain on his other arm. He rested his forehead against Pantheon’s and nudged their noses together. “I know you are, but what am I?”

“I just said wonderful,” Pantheon pointed out, smiling, pressing a peck to Diesel’s lips. 

“If I’m wonderful, you are beyond measure, obviously,” Diesel countered, returning the kiss and ghosting a hand across Pantheon’s waist, fingers merely skimming the fabric, a playful, if a bit languid, taunt.

“Prove that with a kiss,” Pantheon stubbornly argued. The words, though soft, sent a rush through Diesel. 

He wasted no time in obeying, kissing him ardently, if breathlessly. His arms, all four, trembled, either with excitement or exertion or some combination. To stave off the shivers, he held Pantheon closer to his body, wrapping an arm about him. 

“Dear,” Diesel managed once he had dragged in a bit of air to his love-stupid lungs. “I am nearing my limit, sadly.” 

“Ah,” Pantheon blinked, understanding flashing in his eyes. “I can get off of you, if you’d like.”

Planting another, determined for it not to be the last just yet, Diesel assured him, “ _Nearing_. Don’t yet.” That and all things considered, it was a pleasing, sweet sort of torment. Yet, he found himself forehead to forehead with the man again and his limit proven. “Oh.”

“Oh indeed,” Pantheon commented, getting up and picking Diesel up, carrying over to settle him beside Benny on the couch. “That better, love?”

A contented sigh escaped him and he stuck out one arm to hold onto Benny. “Missing a body,” he complained and wiggled his hands to prove his point. Gazing up at Pantheon, he continued, “You’re warm. Surely you knew not to plan anything urgent for the next few hours?”

“We do have to be at the studio by nine,” Benny stretched, hir arm going over Diesel’s shoulder. “Though other than that, we’re good.” 

“That so?” Diesel edged back into hir touch again, despite (or perhaps because of) the sensitivity of his entire body. “Join us, Pantheon?”

“I’ve gotta put on the kettle,” the man fumbled, clearly lying. Benny rolled hir eyes and managed to catch his belt. “Ah- er- um.”

Diesel finished what Benny started, ensnaring him fully.

“Oh!” Pantheon managed to remark, Benny picking up his legs to rest him above the two. Pantheon went pink, wiggling in their gentle hold slightly. “I suppose I can stay here for a bit.”

Adjusting his arms to better hold onto both of them, Diesel mumbled, smiling, “Mm. Good. Stay.”


End file.
